


Threshold

by AtoTheBean



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Ending - SPECTRE, Anal Sex, Angst, Banter, Blood, Bond has a competency kink, Canon-Typical Violence, Did I mention sex?, Explosions, Flirting, Helicopters, Hospitals, M/M, Pillow Talk, SPECTRE Fix-It, Slow Burn, Texting, Torture, Trying to fill those plot holes, and omg, drills, more tags as we go forward, protective minions, there were so many
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2019-10-13 19:24:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 55,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17493815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtoTheBean/pseuds/AtoTheBean
Summary: It’s not that James is surprised to find Q at the bar of the Hoffler Klinik… Well, heissurprised — he’s been under the impression the boffin didn’t fly.  But it’s more that he’s surprised it’s Qhimselfthat tracks him down.  If Q and Moneypenny are really in so much trouble for helping him, Q could have easily just given M his location and washed his hands of the association.   That would have been the sensible thing to do.  Then, instead of one somewhat flustered boffin trying to persuade him to come in from the dark, Bond would be faced with a throng of agents ready to haul his arse in via any force necessary.That would have been rather inconvenient.It makes James think, perhaps, Q is another ally.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pettikotes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettikotes/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Порог](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19014091) by [marias_the_cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marias_the_cat/pseuds/marias_the_cat)



> This fic picks up partway through SPECTRE and takes inspiration not only from pettikotes' STUNNING art in the 00QRBB (http://pettikotes.tumblr.com/post/182179773510/here-are-my-two-pieces-for-the-00q-reverse-big), but also from some of the deleted scenes in the original script, a desire to fill some plot holes, and a need to give Bond a partner he actually seems to have some chemistry with.
> 
> Many thanks to NixDucky and Midrashic for betaing, and especially for SPECTRE-canon help, since my intention is that this is canon-compliant through to the point it picks up in the Hoffler Klinik.

**threshold** _noun._ \ˈthresh-ˌhōld, ˈthre-ˌshōld\

1: the plank, stone, or piece of timber that lies under a door or marks the boundary of an entrance. A boundary between two places.

It’s not that James is surprised to find Q at the bar of the Hoffler Klinik… Well, he _is_ surprised — he’s been under the impression the boffin didn’t fly. But it’s more that he’s surprised it’s Q _himself_ that tracks him down. If Q and Moneypenny are really in so much trouble for helping him, Q could have easily just given M his location and washed his hands of the association. That would have been the sensible thing to do. Then, instead of one somewhat flustered boffin trying to persuade him to come in from the dark, Bond would be faced with a throng of agents ready to haul his arse in via any force necessary.

That would have been rather inconvenient.

It makes James think, perhaps, Q is another loyal ally. Not just someone good for the odd favor, but someone who could be trusted with more than just doing his job. Someone he might be able to trust at least as much as Moneypenny. _So much for my promising career in espionage_ , he once said. And now, again, he’s risking his neck for Bond’s antics.

“Do one more thing for me; then you’re out.” James frowns. They sound like famous last words as they leave his mouth, even to him. He should take better care of his allies, but he’s had little luck on his own, and this is the sort of thing Q excels at. “Find out what you can from this,” he says, holding out the ring he’d pulled off Marco Sciarra, octopus symbol facing Q.

Q offers a complicated look, clearly biting his tongue against myriad, creative expletives. Instead, he takes the ring, frowns at the symbol, and sighs. James knows he’s hooked the man. He doesn’t know Q well — not as well as he probably should do — but he does know the boffin likes a puzzle and appreciates being trusted to solve them. As if commenting on James’ deductions, Q says, “I really, really hate you right now.”

Bond smiles… because Q doesn’t hate him in the least, and might even trust him a bit. “Thank you, Q.”

Q gives him one last annoyed-but-intrigued look and collects his things, tucking the ring into his coat pocket. They agree to meet in Q’s hotel room in an hour, and he watches Q slouch off toward the gondolas.

That’s when James sees Dr. Swann, through several walls of glass, being escorted by no fewer than six men in black. She gives him an accusing look before disappearing from view, and with a curse under his breath, he’s off to rescue her.

A downed plane, three destroyed vehicles, and a smallish explosion later, Bond is rushing Dr. Swann up the stairs to Q’s room just slightly past the agreed time. They all need to leave as soon as poss—

Bond stops in front of Q’s door, noting where the jamb is crushed, and draws his gun. With a soft push the door swings open to reveal a disheveled room, chill air blowing the curtains from the open window. James enters, taking in the toppled furniture, the missing boffin, the open duffle in the corner, and Q’s belongings strewn around the room. There’s no doubt they’re in the right room. Bond would know that jumper anywhere.

“We’re too late,” Dr. Swann says.

Bond glares at her. “What do you know?”

She crosses her arms looking small and resigned. “They tracked you here. They want you dead. They know he’s with you. You’ve given them leverage.” She states the accusations with nearly no emotion, but he feels it nonetheless. And she’s right: he was sloppy somewhere, and he’s endangered both her and Q, from the looks of it.

“Do you know where they’d take him?” he asks, starting to search the room. He rifles through Q’s belongings for something traceable… something that might provide a lead, while stuffing everything back into the duffle bag.

She shakes her head. “We should leave. They are remarkably efficient. Your friend is probably dead already, or wishing he were.”

“Don’t say that! I went after you, and I barely know you. Do you really think I’d abandon him? Would they have taken him to L'Americain? Do you know who he is?”

“L'Americain isn’t a person, it’s a place,” she says, watching as he searches the room, clearly uncomfortable.

“Where?”

She shakes her head. “North Africa. My father was obsessed with it. Went every year. Dragged us with him as long as my mother allowed it. I have no idea why he’d send _you_ there. It’s just a hole in the wall.”

“A hole in _what_ wall?” He starts to take the room apart as he waits for her answer: the table where Q has clearly been working, cords now scattered about. The ensuite, where blood is smeared on the mirror, bright red drops sliding down the porcelain sink, amongst scattered shards of dark grey plastic. Bond can read the scene like a doctor performing an autopsy. Q would have tried to destroy the laptop — standard procedure — but judging from the lack of water, he’d been thwarted. The computer had been damaged but probably just the frame. Q had been damaged as well, and more importantly, both had been taken.

“What _wall_?” he asks again, aware that he’s losing his usual cool. Q shouldn’t even be here. He only came out of loyalty to Bond, for which he’s likely now paying a dear price. If Q is harmed in all this... James recoils from the thought... he needs to at least make progress on the case to help justify the cost.

Madeleine glances around the corners of the room, making Bond suddenly remember the camera in the cabin in Altaussee. She shakes her head, and Bond wants to tear the mirror from the wall.

Q is not a field agent. He’s always performed well under pressure, but from a remote location. Bond has no idea how he might hold up under interrogation — he isn’t even sure what training Q Branch normally receives. No hand-to-hand combat to speak of. Q is a decent shot on the range, but other than that, James doesn’t really know what strengths might get him through this ordeal.

He’s gripping the edges of the sink, bile rising as he tries to push the images of a beaten Q from his mind, when he spies in the reflection of the room a strap protruding from under the bed. He spins to see it more clearly. He’s already torn apart the bedclothes, and they don’t quite hide whatever’s fallen.

No, he thinks as he bends over to pick up the watch. Not fallen. Dropped — or more likely _tossed_ — where rushed kidnappers might not see it but Bond definitely would. It looks remarkably similar to the one he himself is wearing, and that he now remembers noticing on Q’s wrist in the bar, wondering at the digital rather than analog display.

“What is it?” Dr. Swann asks.

James ignores her, pressing buttons on the display until he finds what he _hoped_ would be there: an app showing his own location on an aerial image — marked with a mouse — and a second marker, about a mile away, marked with a cat. It must be him. Clever Q.

James picks up Q’s duffle. “Let’s go.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my betas for assistance and hand holding. I kept mucking with it, so any mistakes are my own. Hopefully, the fact that this is a long one makes up for the lull between chapters...

**threshold velocity** noun. \ˈthresh-hōld, vəˈläsədē\

1: a speed at which some other force, such as friction or gravity, is overcome.

 

It takes ten minutes to locate the cabin where they’re holding Q, off a side road nestled amongst snow and trees. The surrounding holiday cottages seem largely vacant. In another few weeks, when the schools are off, there will likely be smoke coming from every chimney. At the moment, however, most of the cabins are cold and dark.

Dr. Swann is quiet in the car, watching him as he tracks Q on the display now secured to his wrist. He barely notices as she rifles through the glove box for a pen and notepad. He slows the car as he sees the only lit cabin in the vicinity, about 500 meters up the road. James pulls off into a neighbor’s drive — definitely unoccupied — trusting the darkening sky and gathering pockets of mist will shield his approach and that he’s parked far enough away that the motor won’t alert Q’s captors. Then he’s out of the car, gun drawn, with Dr. Swann in tow. She refuses the gun he offers her, following him through the snow with a hand on his hip for balance. A scream cuts through the air just as he makes it to the corner of the building. He dispatches two guards and eases the door open just in time to hear Q scream again.

“You’re not being very cooperative. Things will go so much better for you if you help us track him,” comes a voice he doesn’t recognize,

“Piss off!” Q responds. “If you keep breaking my fingers, it won’t matter if you _do_ convince me to help you. I can’t type without my hands.”

The stranger tuts. “You’re very loyal to him, aren’t you? But we’ve been doing our research, Brandon. We know all about Laney.”

There’s a pause. “You _can’t_ know about Laney…” Q starts. There’s something odd in his voice. Bond doesn’t know him well enough to know if it means he’s lying or just incredulous, but the usual Q snark is gone.

“We know all about her. And the twins: their address, school schedule. You see, we don’t _need_ to break any more of your fingers. If you want them to remain safe, you’d best help us track Bond. He’s a dinosaur with no place in the new order, but we could use _you_ if you make the right choices now. And the boss has something special in mind for him. Delivering him would be a way to secure your position.” The voice is teasing… dangling out a carrot for Q — _Brandon_ , apparently — and somehow the name is galling to Bond. Ill-fitting. He holds his breath, awaiting Q’s response, gun at the ready.

“Give me the computer,” Q says, defeat in his voice.

 _Dammit_. He doesn’t want to hurt Q. Maybe if he’d given him more information earlier, Q could have trusted him. Then again, if Q still has someone to protect…

The clacks of a keyboard interrupt these thoughts. James needs to act quickly or Q will see exactly where he is, and he’ll lose the element of surprise. Bracing himself for a difficult confrontation, he shifts his weight to storm the room when a pop and hiss and the smell of burning electronics stop him before he can move.

“What have you done?” cries the stranger.

“Eliminated the ability for this computer to track anyone,” comes Q’s crisp voice, once again recognizable as the head of the Q Branch: cool, calm, and in control.

James grins and swings the door wide, shooting the first of Q’s captors before he even turns toward the door. The second has just enough time to express surprise before Bond shoots him between the eyes.

He turns to Q, who is wincing back from the spray of blood now splattered across his glasses. There’s a bruise on his jaw and he’s slumped to the right, and of course, two fingers on his left hand appear to be broken, but otherwise, he’s mostly intact. His snark, at any rate, is intact.

“Hello, 007. Lovely to see you… just lovely. Of course, if you didn’t insist on killing _absolutely everyone_ , we might be able to get some more intelligence from them. They were giving up a tremendous amount of information just as you came in.”

“ _They_ were giving it up?” Bond asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Clearly.”

“Well, I was hoping to spare your other fingers.”

“Which I do appreciate,” Q admits. “Because that hurt a like a motherfu— don’t touch them!” Q pulls his injured fingers back from Bond’s outreached hand. “Anyway. Yes. Thank you. I suppose this means you got my note, did you?”

James holds up the watch he used to track Q’s location. “Does it explode, too? Like mine?”

“Why would _I_ need an exploding watch?” Q gingerly wipes his glasses with the hem of his shirt. “Speaking of, I noticed a rather large explosion on the hillside as I was being kidnapped. Your work, I presume?”

“Hmmm. Dr. Swann was in need of assistance.”

“Who?” Q asks, wiping blood off the laptop and closing the shell.

“Dr. Madeleine Swann,” James says, turning to look out the door for a sign of her. “Daughter of Mr. White.”

“Mr. Whi— the… the bad guy… from... what was it? The casino?”

“Quantum.”

“Right. Quantum.”

“He’s dead.”

“Oh. Well, that’s lovely. But his daughter… She’s _good_?”

“He was trying to protect her from the organization. That ring I gave you.”

“Yes!” Q looks around at the fallen guards. “They took that. But I’d started the analysis when I was rather rudely interrupted,” he says, picking up the laptop with his good hand. “That symbol… I don’t understand how… but I owe you an apology, 007. You _are_ onto something. Oberhauser _is_ still alive. The ring proves it. And it seems they were all part of one organization. Le Chiffre, Quantum, Sciarra, your friend Mr. Silva.  And do you know who links them all?”

“Him.”

“Exactly. He’s at the center of all of it. This… this organization, I haven’t found a name for it. Do you know what it's called?”

“Not yet, but if Dr. Swann can get us to L'Americain… where is she?”

The sound of helicopter rotors approaches, and Q’s eyes widen. “We should go,” he says, stuffing the computer in the bag he retrieves from the floor, gasping as he jostles his broken fingers. “Bloody fucking…”

“I had no idea you had such a mouth on you, Q,” James comments as Q gingerly dons his familiar anorak. He kneels to search the guards, pocketing the ring again and confiscating all the weapons. They’ll probably need them at some point, and it’s unlikely these goons have anyone as clever as Q making their weapons. He and Q should be able to operate them. “I thought you’d destroyed that,” he adds, nodding at the computer bag Q is now gingerly draping over his shoulder.

“The processor, yes, but data might be retrievable from the drive. I’d rather they not know what we know, and it still may be useful.” Q sweeps past Bond through the open door and stops in his tracks. “Where’s the car?”

“I’m parked down the lane.”

“No, _their_ car. The one they brought me here in.”

James remembers it now. Grey SUV.

“Perhaps your Dr. Swann felt safest going it alone,” Q suggests.

“Or maybe she was taken…”

“By whom? You killed everyone when you arrived.”

Bond groans but presses on toward the car he has keys for, hoping _it’s_ still there, at least.

“I promised her dying father I would keep her safe.”

“Oh, well, that’s not patronizing at all.”

Bond throws him an annoyed look as they trudge through the snow. “Her father said she was in danger — safe at the moment … smart… good at hiding — but ultimately in danger. He told me about the clinic… sent me to her.”

“At which point the clinic became significantly less peaceful?”

“Well, yes. So it would seem. They must have followed me. Actually, there was a camera in the room where he told me. Perhaps they were the ones watching, got the name of the clinic then.”

“Or perhaps it was a trap all along,” Q asserts, frustrated. “He must have known he was being watched. Why would he give up the location of his lovely daughter while they were watching? He could have suggested a walk or any number of things to get away from the camera if he wanted to send you to her without them knowing. He either doesn’t care about her, if she’s his daughter at all, or they are in it together… trying to distract you with a pretty girl!”

Q’s right. In the logic of it, Q’s right. But Bond’s instincts tell him something else. “She was genuinely frightened. And he gave me the name of L'Americain in front of the camera, but not the location. And she wouldn’t tell me back in your hotel room for the same reason: afraid of being overheard. She might be playing both sides, but I don’t think she’s in the organization.”

Snow has started to fall, and the temperature is dropping rapidly. He’s glad Q has his anorak and hasn’t lost much blood. He hopes Dr. Swann is similarly protected.

“Maybe so,” Q acknowledges after a moment. “All I’m saying is not all damsels are in distress.”

“True. And not all who are in distress are damsels,” he retorts with a significant look at Q’s fingers.

Q snorts a laugh, but looks chagrined. “Fair enough,” he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose somewhat awkwardly. “ _Thank you_ for coming after me, Bond, in case I haven’t expressed my gratitude sufficiently.”

They reach the car, and Q piles into the passenger seat, surprised to see his duffle next to Bond’s in the back seat. They are pulling away as the helicopter buzzes them and turns away to the east.

“Shit! Go left,” Q orders as they approach the main road.

“Why?”

“Because that’s the direction that’s both away from the copter and toward Switzerland.”

“We’re not going to Switzerland. We’re going to North Africa.”

“Well. We’re going _via_ Switzerland. We need supplies. Supplies that can’t be traced.”

They do indeed. If Q knows how to get those, it’s worth a detour. “West it is. Oh, and here.” He reaches into his pocket and offers Q the phone he’s been using to contact Moneypenny. “Call Eve and tell her about Laney and the twins being compromised. She’ll get them to a safe house.”

Q takes it and unceremoniously tosses it out the window.

“Q?”

“It’s being watched.”

“My phone? By whom?” Bond’s voice is suddenly as cold as the icy wind.

Q folds his arms across his chest, gripping the computer bag closer. “C, for one. That’s how M learned you and Moneypenny were talking, and that you were most certainly _not_ in Chelsea, like I told him — and thus why he now wants my balls as Christmas ornaments.” Bond grimaces at the visual. “But as I think about it, I suspect the information gets to Oberhauser, too. A few days ago, there was a vote for C’s Nine Eyes project. Only one country’s vote kept it from passing unanimously: South Africa. Guess where there was a huge explosion today — I mean, other than the one you caused yourself.”

“South Africa,” James guesses, gripping the steering wheel a bit tighter. He catches movement in the rearview mirror. The cloud cover is low and snow is impacting visibility, but he can almost see a shadow. Then again, it might just be a trick of the light.

“Seems rather convenient, doesn’t it?” Q muses. “There have been several terror attacks lately in countries Nine Eyes will absorb.”

“Almost as if C’s little pet project has a sponsor who specializes in such violence.” James considers. “In that meeting in Rome, they said something about expanding their surveillance capabilities, and government intelligence agencies being counteracted. It makes sense.”

“If that’s true, we can’t let it go online. And if we’re countermanding an actual vote, you know what that means?”

“What?”

“You can’t blow up _all_ the evidence for why we’re doing what we’re doing, or we’ll end up in jail.”

Bond smirks. “You worry too much, Q. M has his suspicions?”

“Of course. Mentioned that C’s new building was paid for by private benefactors.”

“Bloody he—” The car pulls suddenly to the right, and Bond curses under his breath as he gets it under control.

“What was that?”

“Ice patch on the pavement,” James says, wishing the road wasn’t quite so curvy. “We still need to find a way to contact Moneypenny about Laney.”

“No, we don’t.”

“She’s safe?” James asks, glancing over at Q.

“Safe as houses. No one could possibly find her.”

Q sounds remarkably sure. “And why’s that?”

Q turns to look at James, pondering something for a moment. “She doesn’t exist,” Q finally says. “There are five versions of my personnel files stored in various MI6 servers. I have them partitioned and isolatable, like… like the hull of the Titanic.”

“Q, the Titanic sank.”

“Yes, well,” Q adjusts his glasses again. “I’ve improved on the design. If one section is breached, the rest lock down and don’t let any malware spread. If these goons know about Laney and the twins, but don’t know that there are other next-of-kin listed for me elsewhere, it means I know exactly which parts of the network they’ve infiltrated, and more importantly, what they haven’t. My _actual_ files are only on paper and are heavily redacted. Only M-the-former knew it all.”

“And she carried it to the grave.”

“Hmmm,” Q says, closing his eyes. “Unfortunately.”

The shadow is appearing in the rearview mirror again, but this time, there’s also a sound.

“Shit.”

“What?” Q asks, instantly alert.

“Company.”

“Where?” Q turns to look out the back window.

“In the air.”

Just as the plane emerges fully from the clouds, bullets rain down on them.

“Bloody fucking—”

James speeds up and swerves, knocking Q into the door in his race to get them to some cover. Unfortunately, the road has emerged from the side slope of a mountain and is now following a ridge, steep drop-offs on either side. They are as exposed as they possibly could be. James speeds along the ridge, eying the curve at the end with trees and the promise of what passes for civilization around here.

“I thought they were in a copter!” Q cries, righting himself.

“Helicopters are hard in these winds. They must have friends with more appropriate vehicles. Be thankful. We’d have no chance against a helicopter. Here, take my gun.” He pulls it out of his holster and hands it to Q. “Will it work for you?”

“Yes,” he answers. “I code them for myself as well so I can test them before they’re deployed. I don’t think it will have the range we need to get a plane, though.”

“Then try the machine gun I took off one of the guards. It’s in the backseat.”

Several bullets hit the car, making Q curse a blue streak. Nothing vital seems to be hit, and the plane zooms overhead as Q retrieves the automatic rifle and gets in position to fire off a burst of shots in its wake, cursing that they’re already out of range.

“Bloody _hell_ ,” Q cries into the momentary lull. “Is this what your life is always like?”

“This is actually less harrowing than usual,” James answers, swerving as the car hits another patch of ice.

“No wonder you park cars at the bottom of rivers.”

James would smirk, but there’s no time. The plane is making another pass, coming at them from the front this time.

“Bond.”

“I see it,” he says, speeding up. If they can make the trees near the end of the ridgeline, they have a shot at surviving this.

Q is shooting out the window as the plane bears down on them. He actually makes a hit, but then the plane is upon them. James swerves to avoid the line of gunfire, hitting a patch of ice.  And they’re spinning, _quickly_ , toward the edge of the road.

While some of James’ numerous near-death experiences have felt like slow motion — the inevitability of physics or gravity stretching out before him to seal his doom — this one doesn’t. Bond hears Q curse, feels the crunch of metal and shattering of glass. Then there’s the _whoosh SNAP_ of the airbag deploying, and the world goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has the first art prompt! Please go tell @pettikotes how bloody fantastic it is! We'll get more art later in the story.
> 
> Thanks again to my lovely betas Ducky and Midrashic for all their help. Truly. And thanks to all of you who have been commenting. They are so lovely!

**threshold** _noun._ \ˈthresh-hōld, ˈthre-shōld\

2: a boundary between two places or states that is only crossed when certain conditions are met.

 

He can still hear the plane engine retreating when his eyes open a few seconds later. He’s sure it will make another pass, and this time they won’t survive it. He looks over at Q, who is splayed unconscious in the passenger seat, broken glasses on his face, gun missing. His blood stains the airbag.

 

_Fuck._

“Q, can you move?” he asks, shaking the boffin’s arm. There’s no response, and though he knows it’s bad form to move an injured person, he decides Q has a better chance of surviving being moved than being shot at like a fish in a barrel.

He unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out, reaching to the backseat for their bags. He slips his arms through the handles of his duffle, wearing it like a backpack, and slides the shoulder strap of Q’s across his shoulder and chest. Then he circles around to the passenger side to retrieve the computer bag, draping it across his shoulder, and finally Q himself.

“Christ, you’re heavier than you look, aren’t you?” he asks as he picks Q up in his arms. He only gets a groan in reply, but it’s more than he expected. “Come on, Q. Who’s going to nag me about tech and point out the flaws in my reasoning if you don’t wake up to do it? R isn’t nearly so feisty.” He trudges to the edge of the copse and then a bit more, until they’re well hidden amongst the brush and tree trunks. He sets Q down in the snow, drops the bags, and rushes back up the hill as the sound of the plane changes, signaling it’s started circling back. He braces himself behind one of the scattered trees about 200 meters from the car. It’s shifted since he left it, the snow under it melting and making it tip a bit toward the slope.

“Time to die,” he says as hears the plane approach again. It’s dark enough now that they’re using a spotlight and probably won’t be able to see that the car is empty until they’re on top of it. He won’t give them that chance. As soon as they start shooting, he levels his Walther at the gas tank and pulls the trigger. The resulting explosion lifts the car and pushes it over the edge of the ridge, sending the fiery heap sliding 300 meters down the snowy hill and into a ravine full of rocks and snow.

Perfect. The gathering night and the difficulty of the approach will mean no one will look for them in earnest before morning. The falling snow will cover their tracks and keep the blaze from spreading.

All he has to do is keep himself and Q alive through the night. A challenge, to be sure, but Bond’s been surprised before how easy it is to stay alive when everyone thinks you’re dead.

He waits for five full minutes to be sure the plane isn’t returning before going back to Q. He’s still out, and not shivering yet, but it’s only a matter of time. James pulls up the app on Q’s watch tracking their locations. It takes a moment to get a lock on him, but then he zooms in on the aerial. It looks like there’s a cabin about a half a kilometer away, so he loads himself back up with their belongings, attaches the watch to Q’s anorak so he can track his progress while he walks, lifts Q bridal style, and starts tromping through the snow in the right direction. It’s slow, and Q really _is_ heavier than he looks, but it’s downhill across the slope to the drive, and then easy walking. The cabin itself is dark and fairly small, the steep-pitched roof lined with icicles. A one-car garage is near, but not attached. James lays Q down on the porch and drops the bags, relieved to feel so light as he circles the cabin to ensure it’s unoccupied. The drapes are drawn, but through he sees no signs of life through the gap. He breaks a small window in what turns out to be the bathroom and lets himself in.

The cabinet doors are all open, and the room isn’t warm, but it’s not as cold as outside, as if someone left the heat on a low setting to keep the pipes from bursting. The owners were likely here recently and planned to return soon enough that it wasn’t worth the trouble to completely shut everything down. Sure enough, the thermostat is set to 16 degrees C. He pushes it up to a more comfortable 21 and goes to the front porch.

Q’s shivering now. Both of their clothes are damp — Q’s from snow and James’ from sweat. James doesn’t dare turn on lights or start a fire, in case Oberhauser’s men are still looking for them, but he needs to get Q warm. He sets up a flashlight on the table to see by, lays a blanket on the unmade bed in the first bedroom, and sets about undressing Q. The anorak has protected his jumper for the most part, but the trousers are soaked. He gets the boffin down to his vest and pants, noting the lean muscles that explain Q’s dense mass. Using a towel he finds in the cupboard, he dries Q off quickly and drapes the rest of the blankets over him. The only blood he sees is on Q’s forehead and jaw, which is better than it might have been. He rifles through his bag for a med kit, pulling out alcohol swabs, bandages, and tape — he improvises finger braces with two thick cardboard nail files he finds in the bathroom. Handling Q’s bruised fingers gingerly, he resets one while the boffin’s still blissfully unconscious and confirms the other doesn’t need it. Then he tapes them both up against the braces so they’ll heal properly. The damage to Q’s face seems more superficial — cuts that don’t appear to need stitches, despite the fact that one of the lenses on Q’s specs shattered. He’s growing concerned that Q isn’t showing signs of rousing yet, but tries to push it from his mind as he cleans and bandages the cut on Q’s forehead and checks him over for other injuries, finding nothing obvious.

He’s getting cold now, the sweat having mostly evaporated and left him chilled. He realizes when he tries to take a shower that the water to the cabin has been turned off after all, and he doesn’t feel like searching for the main line outside in the dark. He makes do with a few bottles he finds in the fridge, washing himself and dressing his own wounds as best he can. Protein bars from the pantry serve as his dinner. It’s not exactly the Savoy, but he needs fuel. It’s been an impossibly long day — where did he start this morning? Somewhere near the Slovenian border? And how many deaths since then? He’s not even sure. He only knows that there are two fewer than his adversaries hoped for.

Q is still shivering when he returns to the bedroom, the furnace apparently not warming the bedrooms very quickly. James brushes his fingers through Q’s curls, relieved to see Q twitch and whimper, even if he doesn’t wake. It’s a good sign. Hopeful and exhausted, he pilfers more blankets from the hall closet and spreads them all over Q, then strips to his pants and gets under the covers with him, spooning him from behind and trying to get as much skin-to-skin contact as possible. It takes about five minutes for Q to stop shivering and relax into James’ embrace with a sigh, and another five for James to finally feel that the heat isn’t being sucked from him. As he drifts off to sleep, Q’s curls tickling his face, he thinks the day has turned out rather better than it might have.

He wakes to Q’s panicked struggles and a pitch black room.

“Shhhh. You’re safe, Q. You’re safe.”

Q freezes. “Bond?”

“Yes. Go to sleep.”

“Where are we?”

Bond sighs. He should have known that wouldn’t work. “What do you remember?”

Q is very still in his arms. “The plane?”

“It forced us into some slick pavement, and we hit a tree. We were both knocked out, but I woke and got us clear before the plane made its next pass. The car exploded, and the plane passed on, thinking we were in it. I used your clever watch to find this deserted cabin and got us cleaned up and warm. Welcome to death, Q. I think you’ll find it most pleasant.”

Q huffs a small laugh. “So… you carried me here, stripped me, and got in bed with me?”

“After setting your fingers so they’d heal properly and cleaning up the cuts on your face.” He feels Q shift to inspect his hand, and that’s when he notices. He’s hard. His cock is pressed into the cleft of Q’s arse. No wonder the boffin is so still. “You were bordering on hypothermia. It’s standard procedure to—”

“I know the procedure,” Q interrupts. “I just…”

He shifts again, and _fuck_ it feels good. James hasn’t had a male lover in ages, but he’s suddenly _very_ aware of Q’s lean, muscular body and the way it fits so perfectly against his own. Which is not helping with their awkward situation. James loosens his arm to allow Q to move away, which he does promptly.

“I’m sorry,” Q says. “I’m sure it seems like a perfect opportunity, but I can’t be one of your Bond Girls — or Boys, I suppose, if there really are such things.”

“My what?” James asks.

“Your… your _girls_. The ones you _always_ seem to fall into bed with, no matter the situation. And I’m not judging. Your job is stressful and uncertain and you should certainly take whatever pleasure you can find. But _I_ can’t… I just can’t.”

“Q, calm down,” James says, turning the flashlight on and aiming the beam at the wall so the room is dimly illuminated.

They both sit up, awkwardly, blankets pooling at their waists. Q glances at James’ bare chest.

“I had no intention… that is, I was _sleeping_. It’s just a physiological response.”

“Oh.” Q seems almost disappointed.

“And I don’t assault unconscious people — I hope you know me _that_ well. And I don’t pursue people who aren’t attracted to me.”

Q looks away.

Oh. _Oh._

“That’s not the problem,” he muses, surprised. Q blushes, which looks amazing after how pale he’s been. “Q,” he starts, feeling cotton-headed and wrong-footed.

“It’s fine. It’s probably never crossed your conscious mind. You’re probably _straight_. I wish I hadn’t said anything, but I… I…”

“Woke up with my cock pressed up against your arse, and thought you’d best make yourself clearly understood?” James offers.

Q huffs a laugh. “Oh, was it? I hadn’t noticed,” he says with a bit of his usual snark. It’s gone in an instant though, and he turns to face Bond quite seriously. “I _can’t_ be someone you bed and then forget,” he says. “I’m sure you would be a fantastic shag, if you were inclined at all toward that. But…” He shakes his head.

“Q,” James starts again, grasping Q’s forearm in a way that feels almost intimate in their current state of undress. “You are a trusted colleague and… and friend. A _valued_ colleague and friend. I would never treat you like a mark. But you need heat... and sleep. So unless you adamantly want me to move to the other bedroom—”

“No, of course, It’s fine. Fine. Very sensible.” He sees the water on the table and takes a sip, helping himself to the bottle of pain relievers James left there as well Then he lies back down, his back to Bond, as he’d been before. James watches him for a moment and switches off the light and settles behind him, being sure to keep several inches between them this time. They are both stiff and uncomfortable, but the air between them is starting to warm again, literally if not figuratively.

“How’s your head?” he asks into the silence, knowing Q is no closer to sleep than he is.

“Throbbing a bit, but that’s to be expected, I suppose. Thank you, Bond, for saving me _again_. Twice in one day… I seem to be in ‘distress’ rather a lot at the moment.”

“In your defense, you were in danger both times because of me. Seems only fair I should get you back out of it. Now, get some sleep. We have a lot of problems to solve tomorrow; we need that brilliant mind of yours well rested.”

“What problems?” Q asks, turning his head slightly so James can just make out his profile in the darkness.

“Our enemies think we’re dead, but our friends don’t know one way or another, nor do they know that Nine Eyes and Quantum and the others might be related. We need to make contact in a way C or Oberhauser won’t detect.”

“Oh, that,” Q dismisses, settling back against his pillow. “I know how we’re going to do that. I just don’t know how we’re going to get to Switzerland without a car. Are you sure it can’t be salvaged?”

“Quite. But if life has taught me anything, Q, it’s that there’s always another car.”

“Yes, yes,” Q mumbles sleepily. “Three-million-pound prototypes be damned.”

“Sleep, Q, and leave the car to me.” That assurance seems to allow the boffin to drift off to sleep. Listening to Q’s soft breathing, feeling the heat now emanating from his body, James can’t sleep at all. He’s acutely aware of Q’s slim form inches away and the memory of how it felt against him. And more importantly, Q’s strong, complicated reaction to their proximity… he seemed almost _hurt_.

It makes James wonder how much he’s missed in their interactions over the years.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting...RL has been kicking my butt. 
> 
> Thanks to my lovely betas for all the help, especially Midrashic for the help with canon. I'm mostly deviating from it for a bit now, but somehow making sure it all dovetails is harder than I expected.
> 
> Thanks also to all of you who have been commenting. You're the best!

**Threshold knowledge** _noun._ \ˈthresh-ˌhōld, nol-ij\

1: a term in the study of higher education used to describe core concepts — or **threshold concepts** — which, once understood, transform perception of a given subject, phenomenon, or experience.

 

He wakes to the pale light seeping into the room through the gap in the drapes, to find he’s apparently moved forward and he’s now once again flush with Q’s back, spooning him from behind, and _hard_. Again.

Bloody hell, he’s going to be slapped with a harassment or assault charge if he can’t get his subconscious mind under control.

He eases back without waking Q, grateful not to have to repeat the embarrassment of last night. He dresses quickly, bracing against the chill, and closes the bedroom door as he leaves to search the cabin in daylight. He finds a set of keys in a drawer in the entry, which seems quite promising. He also finds a box of those protein bars in the pantry and nicks a handful of them in case he and Q need to make do.

Judging from the difficulty he has trudging over to the garage, they got more than 30cm of snow overnight. That will make their lives potentially more difficult, but it will also be more difficult for the people who want them dead to search the wreckage. James is happy with the trade-off. Inside he finds a 4-wheel drive Jeep. Not the most comfortable of vehicles, but it will get them off this mountain and to civilization, and then they can rent something, perhaps. He checks that it starts and puts the chains on, since he’s not sure that the plows have come through yet, even on the main road. Then he goes to wake Q.

His face looks better than it did last night. There’s still bruising on the jaw, but the cut on his brow has scabbed over and looks dry.

“Q,” he says softly, resisting the urge to brush the curls from his brow.

“What time is it?” Q asks in a gravelly voice, opening his eyes slowly. “And where are my specs?”

“Just past dawn, but I don't think we should linger. Your glasses broke in the crash. Your bag is here, if you have a spare pair. I tried to put everything back in your duffle, but they tossed the room pretty thoroughly, and I may have missed something.”

“Thank you. I should have a black case.” He sits up and seems to realize his state of undress.

“I’ll leave you to find them and dress for traveling. I’ve found us a vehicle. You said you could solve our other problems?”

“Hmm. How much cash do you have?” he asks, causing Bond to linger at the door. Q rummages through his bag, finding the case and donning a pair of squarish horn-rimmed glasses that hide his face more than his usual half-rims.

“Maybe 400 Euros. But I have cards.”

“They’ll trace the cards.”

“True. Dead men don’t use cards. Are you worried about C?”

“Anyone who’s watching. I have 150. Between us, it’s enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“Petrol, a few meals, and a night’s hotel. I’ll need to clean up before my errand, and as you say, we shouldn’t linger.”

Bond nods and closes the door to give Q privacy, packing his own bag in the back of the Jeep. Q emerges five minutes later with his duffle and computer bag, hair damp and face flushed from washing with a cold water bottle.

“I want to get clear of this cabin and the crash site before anyone comes looking for us,” Bond says, taking the bag and opening the passenger door for Q. The boffin takes a seat and rifles through the glove box, finding the registration and name of the owners, and making a note on a pad of paper.

“Is your phone safe?” Bond asks as he starts the Jeep, realizing that he rarely sees Q write on paper.

“Probably not. I’ve turned it off. We’re going dark until we get to Switzerland and I can build us new tech. Though this should be safe enough to use,” he comments, plugging in the GPS unit he found in the glovebox.

“So where am I headed?” Bond asks, throwing the Jeep into gear.

“Zurich. Take me to Zurich.”

The chains get them back up the hill to the main road and to the crash site, which Q studies grimly as they pass. Then they work their way down the mountain. Within a half hour, they are able to remove the chains and travel a bit faster, the road no longer empty but hosting skiers and vacationers, making Bond breathe a bit easier. A half hour more and they merge onto the motorway heading west. Through it all, Q makes notes on the pad of paper he took from the cabin, and Bond stays quiet so as not to disturb him. He has his own things to ponder.

He’s always assumed some nameless power — the universe, or luck — was the architect of his life’s pain. The force he was in constant struggle against. But now it seems a _foster brother_ is at the root of much of it. How he’d earned so much ire at such a tender age, he’s not sure: his actions since might warrant such enmity, but what could he have done at the age of _12_ to do so? He had mourned them both, surrogate father and brother. What a _fool_ he’d been.

Q leans over to use the GPS, and a new route calculates.

“Change of plans?” Bond asks.

“A hotel I used to frequent. Not so luxurious as you prefer, but quite nice and _very_ discrete. We’ll get cleaned up and go to the bank just before it closes. You’ll need to play the role of my bodyguard.”

Bond turns into the city, following the directions to _Le Bijou_.

“At the bank, perhaps it’s best I serve as your bodyguard, but at the hotel, posing as lovers is less likely to raise suspicion don’t you think? We could get a single room, which would better allow me to _actually_ guard you.” He glances over at Q’s blushing face. “I’m not trying to embarrass you. I’ll sleep on the floor if you like. It just seems a better cover—“

“You’re right,” Q interrupts. “That will garner little attention and be cheaper.”

As they enter the lobby, Q plays his part with more skill and enthusiasm than James would have expected, wrapping an arm around James’ waist and leaning in, whispering as they check in, “Ask for the top floor.”

“He’d like a view, since I won’t be letting him out of the room much,” James tells the woman checking them in with a wink.

She smiles conspiratorially and looks back and forth between them. Q stiffens, and James is worried he’s pushed the boffin too far, when Q places a hand over James' heart, leans toward the counter, and says something to her in _perfect_ French. It’s not just fluent — _James_ is fluent. Q sounds like a native speaker. James misses the beginning, but catches something along the lines of “ _older lovers have their advantages, but require so much rest, while I prefer a drink and beautiful view_”.

She fights her smile. “I have the corner room on the 14th floor. It has oblique city and lake views.”

“ _C'est parfait, merci beaucoup_ ,” Q answers with a wink of his own.

If she’s surprised they’re paying cash, she makes no sign. Q continues his affectionate affect as they leave the lobby for the lifts, and in the hallway as Bond unlocks the door, but he’s all business once they clear the threshold.

“You check the room physically, and I’ll check it electronically,” he commands, pulling out his watch and switching from the tracking app to a different one that apparently detects electronic surveillance. They work in tandem for ten minutes, Bond impressed with how comfortable Q seems in the field. Soon, they are both satisfied the room is clear, and James breathes a bit easier.

“You take the first shower, Q.” James says. “I’ll get the medkit ready for you. We should have an agreed-upon story for your injuries; otherwise, people might assume you’re in an abusive relationship. I can live with being your sleepy old lover, but I’d rather not have these people think I beat you.”

Q gives him a sly look. Apparently, he wasn’t sure Bond had understood his teasing. “I fell on the slopes and caught the edge of the ski. Should explain everything reasonably well.”

Bond nods. “I’ll go to a chemist and get you actual braces for your fingers. Shouldn’t take long. When do you want to go to the bank?”

“At three,” Q says. “And then we’ll hit a Lamassu ATM and I’ll cash in some Bitcoin. That should get us through.”

“So, we’re raiding your personal accounts? That hardly seems fair. We could go for mine as well.”

“C may be watching yours, but he won’t have a jump on these. They’re from well before I started working for MI6. I was good at crypto management long before I became Q.”

That is news to Bond. “What did you do?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself with,” Q says, taking some painkillers with the complimentary bottle of water and inspecting his fingers. “Let’s just say, I’m not bothered about my government pension. Regardless, I’ll bring the receipts to M and make sure I’m reimbursed… one way or another.”

Bond raises an eyebrow. Q’s full of surprises well beyond his acting ability and fluency in French. “I’ll leave you the Walther.”

He comes back after scoping out the surroundings of their hotel, buying proper splints for Q’s fingers, and getting a half liter of Scotch... for reasons. He won’t break into it soon, but he’d rather have his own than order shots from the hotel. When he gets back, Q is in trousers and a cashmere jumper that brings out his eyes. Trendy and soft. James helps place the new splints on Q’s fingers, and then takes his own shower, quickly beating himself off to avoid any sexual tension at the feel of how Q felt nestled into his side, and how terrifyingly _competent_ he is. It does little to help, though, when an hour later they are sitting in a marble-lined bank, and Bond tries to look threatening and not just _stare_ as Q offers a retinal scan as ID and withdraws an absurd amount of money from a 10-year old account.

_Terrifyingly competent._

And then they are in a computer store, with Bond serving as a human shopping trolley as Q piles up a daunting array of tech. Back in their room, Bond tries to stay out of the way as Q unpacks everything, disembowels the three computers he’s purchased and starts building a Frankenlaptop to his personal specifications. About an hour later, Q hands him a phone he claims is untraceable, piggybacking onto a satellite phone that Q has purchased and hacked.

Bond orders room service with it.

Taking a cue from the Minions he’s watched, he places a plate of finger food — cheeses, breads, and fruits — along with a cup of tea in the lower left corner of Q’s desk. It slowly disappears as Q works and Bond cleans the guns and organizes his clothes. When he’s done, Q is still at work and will be at it for hours, clearly. And Bond will go mad if he has to watch Q tinker and type all night.

“I need some occupation, Q. Unless you have some better errand for me, I’ll circle the hotel and make sure no one is watching us.”

Q glances at the clock. “That’s a good idea,” Q acknowledges. “The only other errand I have it may be too late for. We need a new vehicle. If you can find an open vendor for used cars, take some of the cash and get us something suitable. Something older, without an onboard GPS or computer that might have been tampered with. Then tomorrow we can wipe down the Jeep and leave it to be found by its owners once we’ve left.”

“I’ll find us something. Will you be alright alone?”

“I’ve hacked the CCTV,” Q says, nodding at one of the screens. “I’ll get a warning if anyone comes. Leave me the Walther. Use your phone to text me if need be.”

“Nothing will be open past ten,” Bond guesses. “I’d best go.”

Fortunately, a city as large as Zurich doesn’t sleep much, and cash still reigns when dealmaking. He returns to the hotel two hours later with a grey 2003 Alfa Romeo Spider, speedy enough for Bond and sensible enough for Q.

He finds Q drinking tea and typing at his computer. “Mission accomplished,” he says, tossing the keys to Q, who nods his approval when he sees the logo on the fob.

“I’ve hacked the backdoor of the portion of MI6’s network where Laney and the twins reside, to find wisps of their spider webs.”

“Not literally, I hope.”

“Near enough,” Q says, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. “Or little vines prying into my thick firewall and sending information back.”

“Back to where? C?”

“At least. I’m sending tendrils of my own to trace it, but I need to tread carefully. Otherwise, they’ll see and shut it down, and worse, know we’re alive. Now that I know what their work looks like, I can check the rest of the network and confirm they haven’t penetrated it all.”

“How do you think they got in?” Bond asks, hoping it doesn’t sound too much like an accusation. Lord knows the servers have been safer since Q took over than they’ve been in the entirety of Bond’s career.

“Pre-merger ‘updates’ pushed by MI5. I think Q Branch and the archives are safe. I’ve been insisting on a phased adoption so I have a chance to address any problems. Highest priority for me is ensuring the photos of the agents haven’t been compromised.”

“That horse may be out of the barn. C made it clear when he met me that we are all his employees, now. If he’s in Oberhauser’s pocket…”

“True,” Q says, rubbing his neck. “But no need to make it easy for him. It looks like executive servers and computers are hit, though. I ran some scans and found scripts I didn’t load on Eve’s machine.”

“Meaning what?” James asks, glad once again Q is on their side.

“Meaning her computer probably has malware tracking her keystrokes, and her phone is certainly tapped. And likely M’s as well. I have to code something that she’ll see and they won’t.” He cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders, clearly already tired. “It’s going to take a while, but if I can do it tonight, we can make contact with Eve when she first gets in. Then we can be on our way, if I can suss out where L'Americain is. North Africa, you say? That should narrow it down to 30 or 40 places.”

He sounds exhausted, but so determined. Bond realizes this must be how he always is, but it’s usually behind the scenes, where Bond can’t appreciate the depth of his dedication. James approaches and squeezes Q’s shoulders, and when Q doesn’t flinch away, he starts massaging the soreness from the muscles there. Q groans in pleasure and lowers his head to give James better access.

For his part, James is glad to be allowed this much intimacy, after the awkwardness of last night. He has a new appreciation for Q’s talents and passions, all rolled into a package that’s more appealing the longer James spends time with him. And though James wouldn’t object to being Q’s lover, he now _knows_ he wants to be the man’s friend.

“You’ve made far more progress than I would have expected. You need sleep. We both do. But if you can do all that by morning, we may have an edge for the first time since this started.”

“Once I get going, it’s actually hard to stop,” Q admits, arching his neck under James’ hands like a cat showing where it wants petting. “But maybe if you can narrow our options on L'Americain, we can both get a bit of sleep tonight.”

“I can try. Is there anything else I can do for you? Order more tea? Pour you a scotch?”

“A scotch sounds sublime, but I don’t dare. Tea would be lovely.”

Bond reluctantly finishes the massage and orders up more tea and some dessert to keep them both going. He decides to change into sleep pants. Digging through his clothes, he finds a small, folded piece of paper protruding from the coin pocket of yesterday’s jeans with a few words written in a looping scroll: _Tangier; Rm 27._

He goes through the other pockets to see if he missed anything else, and finding nothing, returns to the desk to hand it to Q.

“What’s this?” Q asks owlishly.

“I think… I think Madeleine must have slipped it into my pocket as we approached the cabin where you were being held. I remember now that she wrote something in the car as I tracked you, and as we made our way through the snow, she grabbed my hip. I thought she was catching her balance, but perhaps she was slipping me this note before she slipped away herself. I should have found it earlier, but I don’t actually use coin pockets.”

“Could be a trap,” Q cautions.

“It could, but she could have just told me when I asked if that were the case. I think she wanted to tell me and was just afraid of being overheard by Oberhauser’s goons. I know you suspect her, but I really think she’s just trying to stay clear of trouble while helping me in a small way she hopes won’t be detected. Mr. White said this was the best way to find Oberhauser. I have to try. But I hate to risk you any more than I already have, you may find him electronically with your tendrils. We could split up. You could stay here and hack in relative safety and I—”

“No. We stick together,” Q says, turning to look at him. “Give me ‘til morning to make contact with Eve, and I’ll drive with you to Morocco. You need backup, and I need a bodyguard. We’ll do them more damage together, I dare say.”

There’s a knock on the door, and James goes to fetch the tea, gun drawn just in case. He returns and serves Q again, suspecting that keeping the boffin fed up will be a major part of his duties while they work together. He has his dessert with scotch, but only one finger. Then he changes for bed, washes up, and gets comfortable in the club chair where he expects to spend the night. Using his new, custom phone, he locates the hotel in Tangier and plots a route. Then there’s nothing to do but watch Q work or go to sleep. He drags the club chair closer to the window so he can prop up his feet and steals a pillow from the bed.

He’s just settling in when Q asks, “What are you doing?”

“Getting some sleep. One of us ought to.”

“Why not take the bed?”

“I promised you the bed.”

“And I’m not using it. And it’s huge, and I don’t mind telling you to budge over when I’m ready.”

Bond nods, grateful. “Is there a side you prefer?”

Q bites his lip and shakes his head. “How we were last night is fine.”

There’s a bit of a blush in Q’s cheek, and his words feel almost like a reversal of his concerns the night before, but James is too tired and grateful to press it.

He goes to bed, letting Q’s typing lull him like rain. Hours later, when the room is dark, he feels the mattress dip and the covers tug as Q comes to bed, damp and smelling of some posh botanical shampoo. James moves forward and embraces Q from behind without thinking. It’s only a moment later, as he’s drifting back to sleep, that it occurs to him to be surprised Q lets him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my wonderful betas Midrashic and Ducky! And all of you who commented. I appreciate it so much! And happy International Fanworks Day!

**Absolute threshold.** noun. \ˈabsəˌlo͞ot, ˈthresh-hōld\

1: the lowest level at which a stimulus (sound, light) can be detected.

 

He wakes just before dawn, Q’s curls tickling his nose. And he’s hard, because that’s the new normal now when waking up with Q. Fortunately, they’ve moved in the night, so his erection isn’t pressing into Q’s arse. Instead, James is on his back with Q sprawled across half his chest, _his_ erection pressing into James’ hip.

James finds he doesn’t mind.

His arm is draped over Q’s back, hand resting on his hip. They’re tangled together like lovers, and James just lies still with his eyes closed and takes it in, how it would feel to wake like this. He can’t _enjoy_ it _per se_ , knowing Q would likely feel awkward if he were to wake like this. But he can savor it for a moment. Try it on, so to speak.

Not for too long, though. Shouldn’t get used to it. Sighing, he shifts away. Q is, thankfully, a heavy sleeper, and went to bed far later than Bond. He doesn’t stir as James dislodges himself and makes for the shower.

When Bond returns, cleaner and much more… _relaxed_... he finds Q up and dressed and already typing away.

“Bond. Good. You can help me ensure it’s Eve we’ve got. I’m mirroring her desktop now.”

As James watches, Q’s screen transforms into another; one with several emails open, and typing occurring in one. They watch as the email is finished and Eve’s signature attached. As a new one is opened, Q creates a small window in the lower right of the desktop. In it, he types, _Hello Eve. If you can read this, please type ‘meeting at 10’ in the email you’ve started_.

There’s a pause, and then clear as day, ‘meeting at 10’ forms in the email window.

“That’s a good start,” Q says to himself. He types: _The first time we met was at the Grind Cafe. You ordered a Chai Latte. What did I order?_

After a moment one word appears in the email window: _Cappuccino._

“Do you want to test her?” Q asks.

“Ask her which rearview mirror she clipped the first time we met.”

He does, the question appearing in Q’s window. Eve’s correct answer is once again in her email. James nods, and Q starts typing again: _Are you alone? If so, type ‘Y’, otherwise don’t respond, and I’ll try you later._

_Y_

Q rolls his shoulders in a way that Bond recognizes as a sort of ‘getting down to business’ motion. _Your machine is being watched — keystroke tracking malware. Probably C. Oberhauser is still alive and linked to C, among others. All exec computers and phones likely affected by the tracking malware, but other servers should be intact._

After a moment he adds: _Rumors of our deaths are greatly exaggerated._

There’s a longer pause this time, and then Eve opens a new document and titles it “To Do” at the top.

Clever.

Q writes: _Tell R ‘Code Tardis’. Tell M we are on mission, and he owes me reimbursement to my personal accounts. I’ll turn in receipts if I survive. Let everyone else think we’re dead._

Eve types: _1\. New ways to initiate contact with field agents._

 _Sorry, Moneypants_ , Q types. _We’re dark unless we reach out to you. Speak to M about this only in person and off campus. Who knows what else has been bugged._

She types: _2\. Field safety measures._

_We’ll try to stay safe. Ta, Eve. Keep the home fires burning._

“Anything you want to add?” Q asks looking up at Bond.

He shakes his head. “There’s more intelligence to relate, but let’s make sure C and the others don’t react to that news first, before sending more to Eve and M.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Q says, shutting down the window and ending the mirroring session with Eve’s machine. “I can have this packed up in 30 minutes. When do you want to leave?”

“As soon as possible. We have a long drive. I’ll wipe the Jeep down and get some breakfast for the road.”

They are on their way south an hour later, having left the Jeep just outside the city. They drive for hours, Q alternating between using the satellite connection to hack on his computer, swearing under his breath, and pretending to sleep. On the third cycle, as Q huffs a disgruntled complaint, closes the laptop, and folds his arms across his chest.

“What’s wrong?” James asks, shifting and passing a campervan on the A7. _Tourists_.

“My ‘tendrils’ aren’t getting anything.”

“Were they discovered?”

“No. That’s the good news. They’re just being bounced all over the globe. Which I expected, but I also expected they’d land somewhere eventually.”

“I’m sure they will. And maybe there will be something at L'Americain that can help you. You’ll find a way, Q. You always do.”

Q just stares at him for a moment, and then looks away, a small, pleased smile on his lips.

The coast of Spain is glorious. Sunny, with occasional views of the sea. Bond’s mind wanders occasionally away from the mission and enjoys the fact he’s driving a stunning, winding road with a svelte, brilliant, lovely man in the passenger seat. When the enormity of all they’re trying to do isn’t weighing on him, James can almost feel content. Almost wish that they were here under vastly different circumstances.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Q says, as if he’s reading James’ thoughts.

“Hmmm. Have you been here before?”

“Never further south than France. Not sure why, actually.”

“You speak like a native,” James observes.

“I was born in Brixton. MI6 is the closest to home I’ve found myself in over a decade.”

Bond notices all that isn’t said — when he was in France, _why_ he was in France — but focuses instead on the one bit of information that was offered freely. “Is that in your file?”

Q glances over at him slyly, and James likes this side of their relationship. It’s a bit cat-and-mouse — like the icons on Q’s watch tracking app. Q trusts him in some ways, he’s sure, but still plays things close to the chest and makes James work.

“Only in the paper one,” Q admits, and James preens at being told something _real_. “The one they hacked says I was born in Kensington.”

“You can pull off Kensington,” James says.

Q scoffs. “Please! As if I’d be caught in those ecru Edwardian row houses,” he says in a distinctively South London accent — not at all how he usually speaks.

“Pygmalion,” Bond muses.

“Aye,” Q agrees. “I’ve always been a dab hand with languages, computer or human.” His voice now carries a thick Scottish brogue.

“You are _wasted_ in the Q Branch tunnels.”

“I don’t think so,” Q says, leaning back and closing his eyes, his voice now the posh public school version Bond is used to. “Just because you’re good at something doesn’t mean good comes from it. I serve better causes now than I ever have. And have better resources and co-conspirators.”

James looks over at him. Q hasn’t shaven, and a dark stubble is obscuring the sharpness of his jawline. James wonders how long it will have to be before it feels soft to the touch. “Co-conspirators?” he asks. “I thought we were colleagues.”

“This is hardly a standard mission,” Q scoffs. “And I suspect our new employer, _C_ , would recall us if he could. I think that makes us co-conspirators.”

Bond smirks and takes the next curve a little faster, just for the thrill of it.

“So we are.”

They talk about the mission: the connections to all the previous missions, with James offering details regarding the earlier ones that Q wasn’t around for while steering clear of information about Vesper. Q seems to see the holes — he’s read the files after all, and rumors of Bond’s disastrous affair run rampant through MI6 — but he never presses the issue. Never presses the lingering bruise of her death on James’ psyche, and for that James is grateful. And every so often, James notices Q watching him — contemplating, perhaps — and occasionally the look is decidedly appreciative. He remembers Q’s blush when James asserted he didn’t pursue people who didn’t find him attractive. He finds he rather likes the idea that Q may be harboring some… not a crush, exactly. He’s not awkward or fumbling around Bond at all. But he’s harboring _something_ , and where James generally finds the crushes of coworkers annoying, he rather likes Q’s appreciative looks, perhaps _because_ Q speaks with him so normally.

Or maybe it’s because James has a definite competence kink, and Q has proved himself competent in ways James hadn’t ever considered.

They switch off driving when Bond gets tired, making it a good bit along the coast of Spain before stopping for the night. Again, they get one room and again, it has one large bed. They don’t have to discuss what to do next: Bond does a circuit around the hotel and surroundings to make sure all looks secure while Q sets up his computer to hack for a few hours. While he’s out, Bond finds an open shop and buys Manchego cheese, egg and potato tortillas, Marcona almonds, and Iberico ham. And the local vermút, because when in Spain…

He returns quietly so as not to disturb Q’s work, but he finds Q not at his computer, as he expected, but on the floor in the most awkwardly graceful position he can imagine: legs out behind him, hands splayed on the floor near his hips, back arched, and face turned to the ceiling. And as Bond watches, it all reverses: Q’s head is near the floor between his hands and his arse in the air, back and legs straight enough that he resembles an inverted “V”. And then there’s a deep breath and an undulation and he’s back in the first position, like he’s a dancer fucking the floor.

“Bloody he—”

“Bond!” Q falls coltishly to the floor, red-faced and lacking any of the grace James just observed. “I didn’t expect you back yet. My back’s been bothering me and I’ve been neglecting my—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Q. Yoga is hardly a dirty little secret.” A surprise, yes. Memorable, _yes_. But not untoward.

“I can’t do the whole thing anyway, because of…” He waves the hand with the braced fingers. “I’ll just get cleaned up,” he stammers, rising from the floor and dashing to the loo.

James makes up a small plate of cheeses, ham, and almonds, and places it in the corner of the desk. Then he decides to follow Q’s lead and do some sit-ups and push-ups and star jumps, pushing himself to some ill-defined brink until he hears the shower turn off.

This is getting ridiculous. With anyone else, he’d just slice through this sexual tension like a hot knife through butter. But Q made his opinions on the matter clear.

Well, clear _ish_.

But James is not willing to make any sort of move that might be considered disrespectful or forward. It’s not the time anyway, other than the fact that neither of them may make it through this non-mission alive. But that sort of thinking is _exactly_ what Q was referring to when he said he couldn’t be part of a liaison.

By the time Q is out of the bath, damp and fresh and looking like some botanically-aromaed fey creature, James is a sweaty, hot mess. He barely grunts, nodding at the food he’s laid out, before he retreats to the washroom.

It’s steamy and smells of Q’s shampoo and sex, and none of that is helping. He takes himself in hand as he gets under the spray and doesn’t work too hard at keeping quiet.

He regrets his passive-aggressive behavior as he washes. Q didn’t ask to be the object of desire, after all, despite sticking his arse in the air right in front of James. In fact, he specifically asked not to be. James towel dries and puts on sleep pants and walks into the hotel room like nothing is amiss. And nothing is, apparently. Q is typing on his computer, slowly devouring the cheese and meats James laid out, apparently unaware of his surroundings.

_Good._

James puts his dirty clothes away and tries to think what he might do when Q slaps the table.

“Bloody fucking… you utter _shite_!”

“I hardly think I deserve _that_ ,” James says.

“No.” Q turns, offering an awkward smile. “Not you. My tendrils have stopped circumnavigating the globe and have gone to roost.”

“Where?” James answers, focussed immediately on Q’s computer, though he can barely make sense of what he sees.

“London,” Q answers.

“Really? But that means—”

“That means,” Q interrupts, looking at James conspiratorially, “ _C_ is hacking his own alleged departments because he’s frustrated at the way I’ve dragged my feet in consolidating the MI5 and MI6 servers.”

“And Oberhauser knows?”

“Whatever morsels C feeds him, one item at a time. _Not_ all of MI6. C has access to a sixth of MI6’s data, and Oberhauser has a fraction of that. And if R does what I asked and implements Code Tardis, all servers will appear to be their six-month-old equivalents.”

“Like going back in time,” James says, eyes wide.

“Exactly. There’s still a lot he can learn that will be damaging, but recent intelligence will be hidden. All the dates of the older information will be changed by six months. So virtually obsolete information will seem pertinent. He’ll see through it eventually, but—”

“But in the meantime, it buys us time. Q, you clever, _clever_ man.”

Q blushes. “It doesn’t get us closer to Oberhauser.”

“But it keeps him further from us, and that’s almost as good. I’ve reserved our room at L'Americain for tomorrow night. Hopefully, _that_ will bring us closer to him.”

They pour some vermút and turn in early in hopes of catching an afternoon ferry to Tangier the next day. And as James falls asleep, he ponders Q’s terrifying competence, and how fucking attractive it is.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as ever to Midrashic and Ducky, and to all of you who have been commenting. It really does help my motivation as other parts of my life vie for my attention. I'm going to try to keep to this once a week(ish) posting schedule, but please be understanding if life gets in the way...

**Recognition threshold.** noun. \rekəɡˈniSH(ə)n,ˈthresh-hōld\

1: the lowest level at which a stimulus (sound, light) can not only be detected but also recognized.

 

Q is up before Bond the next morning, already tapping away at his computer as James shakes off wisps of a dream — lithe arms encircling him from behind with an urgency that can’t be denied — that leave him _wanting_ and stumbling for the shower before Q can ask him anything. Ten minutes later, he’s out and dressed and pouring the coffee that Q apparently made. Looking over Q’s shoulder, he sees there’s already been a lengthy coded conversation with Eve.

“What news?”

“Not much that’s good,” Q complains, closing down the window and mirroring and turning toward Bond. “R wasn’t able to run Code Tardis on two of the servers before C took official control. So now there will be some discrepancies that will likely draw his attention. It’s not going to buy us as much time as we’d hoped. She _did_ initiate another routine that will make it harder for C to find things on the servers. Code Tribble basically replicates files multiple times with slight changes in names and content. _We_ can tell which are the originals, but he should have difficulty. So that will slow home down a bit, and possibly make him pass along inaccurate information. Remind me to give her a raise when I get back. And Eve confirms that C knows things happening at -6 that he could really only know if he were in Eve’s or M’s machines. He’s actually gloating a bit,” Q says, taking a sip of coffee.

“He’s quite the little shit, isn’t he?”

“Hmm. And that’s not the worst of it. Another vote on Nine Eyes has been scheduled, and it seems South Africa has seen the error of their ways. Eve says it will go through, and then it’s a matter of days before it can be ratified by all the countries and take effect.”

“So it will go live within the week?”

“Not if I have anything to do with it. M can’t help us, and if he were to try, it would be seen and probably compromise us. But we have his support, and he’ll back us up after the fact.”

“Small favors. You were able to get all that across in code?”

“More or less. She’d type something ambiguous and I’d guess in the overlay window until she indicated I understood. I’m tempted to send her a phone like the one I made for you, but there’s too much risk it would be intercepted.”

“This will all be over before the post could get it there and do us any good. We’d better go. We’re running out of time.”

“I’ll be packed in a mo.”

They make record time down the coast. The morning is quiet, with Q tapping away on his laptop. James has never really had so much time to watch him work. He always comes into Q Branch at the end, when Q has seemed to pull off some miracle. But just like his own spy work, Q’s seems to be hours of preparation followed by a flurry of activity as some cog slips into place in whatever he’s coding. Though he’s not always coding. He’s also writing a memo detailing the connections of the various encounters MI6 has had with this organization in the past: missions they had thought were unrelated until James pulled the ring off Sciarra’s hand, the apparent connections with Bond's past, the apparent connections with this new C.

“Are you going to try to get that to M?” Bond asks.

“I don’t dare send it through any normal channel. But I’m updating it as we learn more and saving it via an encrypted VPN to my servers at home. It’s on a timed kill switch.”

“So if you don’t enter a code within a specified time, it self-destructs?”

“No,” Q says, offering a small smile. “It gets sent out. To _everyone_.”

“Everyone?”

“All of MI6, MI5, several news outlets, the PM, the _Queen_. If we die over this, it won’t be buried. I know it’s bad form to go to the press, but even in a spy agency, a bit of transparency is good for the soul. And if it comes to that, I’ll hardly be worried about prosecution.”

James grins. “Such guerrilla tactics. Who knew you were so brutal?”

“You knew,” Q says, closing his eyes and leaning back in his seat. “You just didn’t believe it.”

It’s true actually. James has often found the apparent juxtaposition of Q’s somewhat harmless appearance and his deadly intellect and tactics puzzling. Now he just finds it... compelling. Appealing. It’s purposeful, he’s sure, like a predator that plays at being harmless to lure you in. Certainly, that’s how he seemed to behave while under interrogation. “And now I know you too well to doubt. So that’s Plan B?”

“Yes,” Q confirms. “Plan A is we _survive_ this, brief M quietly in person, dispose of C one way or another,” he waves his hand to indicate he doesn’t care _how_ it’s done — Bond thinks it may be up to _him,_ actually. “And the greater population of Britain remains unaware of the peril they avoided. But if that goes tits up, I’m scorching the bloody earth. C will not get his grubby hands on _my_ networks and sell them to _your_ psychopathic foster brother.” He shakes his head. “God help us, this is starting to sound like a Greek tragedy. Someone’s eyes will be gouged out next.”

Bond laughs. Really _laughs._ It’s rare that he finds such dark humor in someone who hasn’t seen much fieldwork. But then, maybe Q’s previous work took him afield more than his current position. He seems more relaxed than James would have expected.

They catch the 2:30 ferry across the Strait of Gibraltar and arrive at L'Americain just as the sun is setting. The lobby is beautiful and the room’s simultaneously rustic and elegant, in a way that only truly old cities can manage. Q flings open the wooden shutters covering the window, looks out over the view of old Tangier, and takes a deep breath of appreciation. It _is_ lovely. It would be romantic if they weren’t desperately trying to save the bloody _free world_.

They run their usual tests for surveillance, working in comfortable tandem, and then Q sets up his gear on a small table overlooking the window while Bond begins his systematic search of the room for… he’s not even sure. Some hint that all of this was worth it. Some clue as to where to go next in his search for Oberhauser so that he can finally _kill_ the arse and not spend the rest of his life wondering if he’s behind every single thing that happens to him. And stop Hans from getting Q’s data and becoming their de facto boss, which would be _unbearable_.

Hours later the room is a mess — drawers removed and turned upside down, bedding tossed, shelves empty — and he’s got nothing. Nothing but a headache and growing fury that he’s trying to hide from Q. He’s sure it’s not working. First, the boffin is surprisingly observant. Second, Bond can’t help but handle the furniture a bit more roughly as time goes on, practically slamming cabinet doors by the time he’s done. He was so _sure_ this was going to give them an answer. A lead. But it seems he’s been played. And if that’s true, his intuition about Madeleine was wrong. And Q was right to not trust her and has better instincts than an agent with more age and experience, which is frankly a bit depressing.

He gets the whiskey out of his bag, slumps in the chair Q isn’t occupying, and takes a swig straight from the bottle.

Q eyes him sideways from the computer.

The corners of the room are dark, the only light coming from the small table lamp and the glow of Q’s monitor. James scans them anyway, looking for what he’s missed. There’s no carpet on the floor to lift. He’s already checked for loose floorboards, even under the bed. He looks over at the bed-frame, checking for drawers or shelves, or panels that might hide a compartment, but it’s all solid, sturdy wood plank.

It’d be good for fucking. _God_ , it feels like forever since he’s had a good shag. Rome was the last time, and that wasn’t particularly good. _Useful_ , yes. _Informative_ , certainly. But not really good. Not really headboard-grasping, wall-smacking, put-your-back-into-it _good._

James takes another swig and tries to put that thought out of his mind, glancing over at Q who is still typing away. He’s leaning into the computer, which generally means, from James’ observation, that he’s actually getting somewhere with his task and isn’t frustrated.

At least one of them is making progress.

“No luck?” Q asks without looking away from the screen.

James takes another swig from the bottle as he looks away.

“You’ll find it,” Q says confidently. His voice isn’t mocking or ironic at all, which Bond finds a bit surprising, considering his own thoughts. “You always do,” Q adds, mirroring the faith that James showed Q earlier.

That… something flips in Bond’s stomach. It’s not just the confidence in him that James finds touching. M-the-former used to be confident in him — so much so that she sent him on a mission from the bloody grave. It’s the tone Q uses. Soft. Like Q no longer sees him merely as a tool... the remote-trigger-pulling device mentioned in their first meeting.  Like Q sees _him_.  Maybe understands him.

It makes James want… he barely dares to think it. He’ll fuck it up, anyway. He should prove Q wrong now and get it over with. Make some snide remark and put the boffin back on his guard. Put them both back on their guard; there’s far too much comfort between them.

Q types a few more lines as James grimaces. Then he hits the return key with a flourish. “I think I’ll let that chew for a while. Mind if I use the loo first?”

James grunts and waves the request off. He tries not to watch as Q collects his things and retreats to the _en suite_.

He can’t help but look as Q returns, a pair of sleep pants Bond hasn’t seen yet low on his hips, a thin Doves concert tee stretched across his shoulders.

“It’s all yours,” Q says, putting his things away. When Bond doesn’t move, he turns off the table lamp so the room is only illuminated by the glow of the laptop screen, still churning with some task Q has given it. Q climbs under the covers. After a few minutes, he says, “Come to bed, James.”

 _Christ,_ he sounds like a lover. He could _be_ a lover. It would be so easy. He’d just need a bit of swagger. There’s been something growing between them for days…

But Q is bright and young and lovely and deserves… more than a rough fuck, which is about all Bond is good for at the moment.

“Need to think,” he grunts.

“You’ve mispronounced ‘drink’,” Q mutters under his breath, but he doesn’t argue, and James doesn’t rise to the bait. Soon the room is quiet but for the soft sound of Q’s even breathing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks as always to Midrashic and Ducky. I adore them both so much. And of course thanks to all of you who have been commenting. Your words make me grin so hard.
> 
> You may notice some bits of canon dialogue re-enter the story as we merge back into remixes of canon scenes at the end here (some VERY important canon dialogue at the beginning of this chapter). I'll try not to overdo it, as I don't want to be boring, but some characters need to say their piece... or not, as the case may be.

**Differential threshold.** noun. \ˈdifəˈren(t)SH(ə)l,ˈthresh-hōld\

1: the level at which an increase in a detected stimulus can be perceived

 

James’ head nods a few times, so he decides to set the bottle on the table before he drops it. He knows he’s drifted off when he’s suddenly wide awake again, aware of movement in the room.

A mouse. In the middle of the floor. Eyeing James dubiously.

He trains his gun on it.

“Who sent you? Who are you working for?”

The mouse is silent. Typical.

And then, in a brilliant move in interrogation avoidance, it turns and scampers into a hole in the baseboard.

“Now, where did you go?”

Bond rises and walks to the wall the mouse fled behind, tapping on it and surprised to find it thin and hollow sounding. Of course. He pulls his hand back in a fist, sure he can get through if—

“Bond? What are you doing?”

Bloody _fucking_ hell he thought Q was sleeping. He’s half jumped out of his skin, but responds with a calm voice, “There’s something back here.”

“Okay,” Q says, pushing off the covers and padding over in his bare feet, unfolding his glasses and putting them on. “But didn’t you say Mr. White visited this room every year?”

“Yes.”

Q’s hand is on his shoulder blade now, warm and solid. “Do you think it likely he tore down and rebuilt a wall every time?”

Bond scowls. He was looking forward to destroying that wall, but he feels tension leaving his back as though Q is drawing it from him. “No,” he admits.

“So let’s see if we can find a way through that won’t involve hotel security investigating at… half 2,” he says, glancing at his watch.

“I tried moving that,” he says as Q starts feeling around the armoire centered on the wall. “I thought it might be hiding a door, but it wouldn’t budge.”

Q steps back and looks the cabinet over. “It doesn’t look like the sort of thing you couldn’t move if you really wanted to.”

Bond shakes his head. “And before you ask: yes, I put my back into it.”

Q huffs a laugh, his expression shifting to something mischievous. “Well, it’s possible that it wouldn’t move because it _is_ the door.” His clever fingers continue to explore the frame, edging to the floor to explore the legs.

“I checked for springs and levers, but—“

Metal scrapes as Q lifts a heavy bolt secured to the back leg from a narrow hole in the tile floor.

“Nothing so high tech. Try it now.”

The armoire swings forward smoothly, revealing a narrow entrance. Bond raises the gun and goes in first, keeping Q behind him. “Be careful of your feet,” he says, searching for the light. He tugs at the chain he finds dangling from the ceiling, illuminating a surprisingly large space. Articles and pictures are pinned to bulletin boards on one wall, and on the opposite, a large post-war metal desk supports a _very_ old computer.

“Bloody hell, that belongs in a museum,” Q says, taking a seat at the desk and powering up the gigantic PC while Bond studies the pictures on the cork board, focusing on one. A young girl, presumably Madeleine as a child. He pockets it.

“It can’t be connected to the internet,” James muses, pulling another piece of paper off the wall. “Someone would have noticed.”

“Hmmm. Fair point. So what was he doing? What’s this?” he asks, taking the paper Bond hands him.

“Coordinates.”

The computer boots into a program Bond has never seen before, but Q just nods.

“Mr. White was scanning for a particular satellite phone. He was looking for someone.”

“He was looking for _him_. And he sent me here to finish the job.”

“No,” Q says, switching to another window that brings up a map. He compares it to the coordinates on the paper. “The job is finished. He’s already found him.”

“Where?”

“Nowhere,” Q says, pointing to the point on the map surrounded by desert. “Though that might not be quite right.” He gets up, leaving Bond to study the map as he retrieves his satellite phone from the hotel room. He pads back toward Bond, navigating to an app that shows recent aerial images and zooming in on the coordinates. “There is something there.”

“How do we get there?”

Q zooms back out. “No real roads to speak of. We’ll destroy the car in this sand, I think. Not that destroying cars causes you to lose sleep,” he adds with a sideways look at Bond and something approaching _fondness_ in his voice.

“You need to be more Zen about your belongings, Q.”

Q huffs a laugh. “Yes, well. You’d be surprised.” He looks around the room, taking in what must have been years of secret surveillance from within the organization. “Part of me wants to argue that this could all be a trap, but even I have to admit this would be a pretty elaborate hoax. He must have been looking for _years_.”

Bond nods with grim respect for Mr. White.

“Why didn’t he go after him?”

“Ran out of time, I imagine,” Bond answers. “He was being watched too closely, and then he was poisoned and confined and monitored so Oberhauser could watch him die remotely. It must have been a relief to pass the work on.”

“And you found it. Like you always do.”

“You got us in,” James offers, trying not to preen with the praise.

“No, I just mitigated the amount of destruction it took to get us in,” he says with that amused look again. There’s a pause, and something shifts between them. Turns serious. James can’t quite tell if it’s about the mission or more personal, but he’s almost overwhelmed with the need to step forward and smooth Q’s curls, made wild with sleep.

He’s in trouble. Because he _likes_ that amused glint in Q’s eyes. He likes the way that Q’s hair stands straight up when he first wakes or when he’s coding and running his fingers through it absently. He likes the way Q trusts him to do his job but isn’t afraid to talk things through with him. Likes the way Q’s shirt pulls across his shoulders and rides up when he climbs into bed. Likes the way Q’s expression goes soft sometimes when he’s looking at James, as if perhaps _some_ of what he’s feeling is mutual.

Q shifts in the silence, moving forward and licking his lips to speak. It’s late, and Bond feels a bit punch-drunk from fatigue and high off his success and so _aware_ of Q’s proximity and his own inability to guess at what Q is thinking. Being still, letting Q take the lead and dictate the terms of anything happening between them, feels suddenly desperately difficult. He wants so badly to touch.

Q’s computer chimes from the other room, and after a momentary flash of irritation in his expression, his brows furrow and he heads to the other room.

“What is it?” James asks, mind stuttering back onto the mission again.

Q is all business, scanning the information on the screen and holding a hand up to ask for Bond for silence. It’s strange to see him so very much The Quartermaster whilst in his pajamas and with bedhead, but that’s very much what Bond is seeing.

“I may have found something, too,” Q says, typing at the screen and opening several folders. “I’ve been following my ‘tendrils’, hacking into places they seem to linger and searching for MI6 data that may be archived where it shouldn’t be. I used phrases from my HR file — the one with Laney and the twins listed — figuring that might get us to Oberhauser’s servers.”

“And you got a hit?”

“Not only that. Look here.”

Bond reads where Q is pointing. “South Africa.”

“There are folders for all the Nine Eyes countries,” Q says, scrolling through the directory. He sits back in the chair. “If I could find a way to determine whether this place is the same as the desert lair Mr. White found, that would confirm we’re on the right track.”

He rubs his eyes under his glasses, and as clever as James knows Q is, he doesn’t look like he could code his way out of a paper bag right now.

“How long do you think that would take?” James asks, looking up travel options on his phone while Q explores the directories he’s found.

“A few hours, if I’m lucky. Satellite images won’t be too helpful until morning, unless I use climate-tracking ones monitoring infrared… but those tend to be focused on the oceans.” He glances at his watch and actually winces.

“And if you try in the morning when you’re fresh and the images are useful?” James asks, finding the train schedule.

“Less time, and I’m more likely to be successful and not be discovered,” Q admits. “But you’ll want to be up and out in the morning.”

“You can have until two,” Bond announces, showing Q the schedule for the overnight train. “I can get some supplies in the morning while you work. There’s a train station a few miles from the location, and if my dear foster brother was monitoring the cabin in Altaussee and my phone, I can guarantee he’ll be watching it. I’m sure he’s looking forward to the opportunity to gloat.”

A shadow passes over Q’s expression, but he turns back to the computer and starts typing again.

“Q, you’ve had two hours sleep. You’re wrecked. Come to bed.” God, now _he_ sounds like a lover. Q seems to notice, judging by the startled look he gives James.

“I just need to get something started. Can you get the external hard drive out of my bag… the silver one?”

Bond retrieves it, then goes to clean up in the ensuite while Q attaches it and starts typing again.

He washes the scotch and late night from his mouth and changes into night clothes. Q is still at it as James climbs into bed, feeling again the odd domesticity this mission has taken on, interrupting the bouts of urgency. James relaxes on his back, closing his eyes and listening to the clack of the keyboard that he’s starting to consider comforting. A few minutes later, before he allows it to lull him to sleep, he says, “Q?”

“I know. I’m almost done. And you’re right. At this rate, it would take me until noon anyway. But I need to get it working on something so it will be ready when I wake.”

A few minutes later James hears Q moving around the room, switching off lights, and then the bed dips.

They aren’t in their usual positions. Every night, they fall asleep with Q facing away from him, but from the sound of Q’s breath, it seems Q is facing him, and James feels… aware, both of Q’s warm body and his alert mind.

“James?”

Bond rolls on his side toward Q. Their faces are mere inches apart.

“I was able to see the security and environmental systems. If I can confirm it’s the right place, I might be able to destroy it remotely, and you wouldn’t even have to see him again.”

Q’s fringe has fallen across his brow and into his eyes, and James can’t stop himself from gently smoothing it back, his breath hitching as Q’s eyes flutter closed for a moment and then focus on him again.

“I have to go,” James answers. “If I don’t see him captured or killed with my own eyes, I’ll be looking over my shoulder the rest of my life. He killed Vesper. He killed M. He captured you. He… I’ll never have any rest until I _know_ he’s gone.”

Q nods, sighing. “I just wish I had the resources to back you up properly. I hate the idea of walking into Oberhauser’s trap blind.”

“I’m not blind. You’ve done a better job supporting me than you could have done from Q Branch. He would have seen everything you were doing from there. No, Q. I couldn’t ask for better support on this mission. For a better partner. Or… what did you call us? Co-conspirator.”

Q huffs a laugh.

“The world is lucky we both have a sense of honor and duty, because if we were criminal masterminds, Oberhauser would be the least of the free world’s worries. That said, I know this is personal for me. You don’t have to come.”

“Of course I’m coming with you. It’s personal for me too,” he says, holding up his braced fingers. “And they’re trying to get into _my_ network.”

“Well then, let’s get some sleep. Between the two of us, I imagine we can surprise him at least a bit.”

Q nods but doesn’t move. Doesn’t roll away from James. He still looks worried.

“Come here,” James suggests, pulling Q against him and settling onto his back. “We wake up tangled together every morning anyway. No point pretending it isn’t happening.”

Q doesn’t resist physically, seems almost relieved to be settled against James’ chest, but asks, “Are you sure?”

“Go to sleep, Q,” James says, threading his fingers through Q’s curls and cradling his head. It feels good. Not even particularly alluring at the moment with how tired they both are. Just _good_. Right.

It’s been a long time since he’s felt that way. It’s scarier than facing down an international crime syndicate that moves like a ghost.

But then again, Q is facing that down with him. Not trying to distract him from it or talk him out of it. He’s helping. Materially. _And_ he fits perfectly in James’ arms...

If they live through this, he’s going to have to give his resolution to never be in a real relationship again _careful_ consideration.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Midrashic and Ducky for all their help and support, and to those of you who've been commenting. I do appreciate it so much.
> 
> More variations on canon scenes, now that we're hurtling toward the conclusion. Like a train... well, you get the idea...

**Terminal threshold.** noun. \ˈtərmənl,ˈthresh-hōld\

1: the level beyond which a stimulus is no longer detected.

 

James wakes before Q, wrapped around him from behind, as is so often the case. _Hard,_ as is so often the case.

His fingers are threaded with Q’s and pressed against Q’s sternum, which is _never_ the case. He can’t imagine getting out of bed without waking Q.

Q is waking as well, stretching and shifting back against James’ cock and _bloody hell_ it feels good. Q doesn’t even freeze or startle, and he doesn’t let go of James’ hand or try to move away. He just clears his throat and asks, “What time is it?”

James swallows thickly. “Hmm. Not sure, it looks like just before dawn? Around 6:30 maybe.”

“I should get started,” Q says in a gravelly voice that does nothing to help James’ situation. He doesn’t move, though, and James wonders if they are both savoring the closeness without acknowledging it. James resists the urge to kiss Q’s shoulder or the nape of his neck, both tantalizingly close.

“The shops won’t open for a while,” James observes, trying to focus on what he’s supposed to do with his morning. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

He doesn’t mean for it to be suggestive. He really doesn’t. But Q huffs a laugh.

“To deal with our ‘physiological responses’?” Q asks, moving away enough to roll on his back and face James with a smirk.

“This isn’t a physiological response,” James says, lifting their linked fingers.

“No,” Q admits, his face serious. “It’s not.” He still makes no move to disentangle himself, instead watching James steadily.

“And neither is the rest of it,” James asserts.

Q doesn’t try to deny it, which is a profound relief. “True,” he acknowledges, running his free hand down his face. “But if I don’t hack into their systems before it’s time to leave, it’s unlikely to matter.” And with that he does release James’ hand and get out of bed, showing all too clearly that his state mirrors James’.

James lets him go, relieved that they’re being honest with each other and agreed that now is not the time to do anything about it. The shower starts, and James groans at the thought of Q taking care of himself, but is afraid if he tried to join Q the entire morning would be lost. Instead, he rifles through Q’s duffle.

“What are you doing?” Q asks as he emerges from the ensuite, a towel wrapped around his hips.

“Checking your size. It’s too warm for most of what you packed for Austria, and we’re both running out of clean clothes.”

Q is satisfied with that answer. By the time James is done showering and ready to head out, Q is clearly in the thick of his work. “Take this with you and get it sent via overnight FedEx?” he requests, handing James an addressed cardboard box.

“What is it?” James asks, not recognizing the addressee.

“Insurance,” Q says. “And instructions, in case I’m not around to finish this. We have to assume post into -6 is being monitored, so I’m sending this to someone who can get it to Eve. R will know how to get the data. And if I haven’t managed to keep Nine Eyes from going live yet, this will give her most of what she needs to do it.”

“Won’t it arrive too late?” James asks.

“Maybe not if you hurry,” Q insists without looking up from his screen. James rolls his eyes and pockets the package. “It’s Plan B, anyway.”

“I thought the kill switch was Plan B.”

“My Plan Bs have Plan Bs, Bond… that’s how I keep all of you alive.”

“Touché. We Double-ohs manage a bit on our own, though.”

“Yes, yes, you’re very good at your job, Bond. As you well know.” He waves James off dismissively. “If you want me ready when the train leaves…”

“Fine. I’m going,” James says, handing him the Walther. “Don’t answer the door for anyone. Have you hacked the hotel security?”

Q grunts and motions to a small window in the corner of the screen.

“Have you eaten anything for breakfast?”

“Raided your protein bars,” Q answers, still looking at the monitor.

James leaves him to it.

Hours later, Bond returns wearing a new linen suit to find Q syncing something between his computer and his watch. A new app, perhaps.

“You’re done?” James asks.

“As much as I could manage. I confirmed that the place I hacked and the place we’re going are one and the same.”

“How did you manage that?”

Q turns to face him, clearly pleased with the question. “They use a solar array to power an extensive computer system and complex. I selected one solar panel, took the tracking for it offline, and watched on the satellite over the next several hours as the rest of the array tracked the position of the sun and unit 2743 stayed stubbornly tilted to the east.”

James grins. “So we are onto it.”

“MI6 data is stored under that crater,” Q confirms. “And data from half a dozen allies. And their facility is scheduled to get _more_ within 48 hours. I know I’m going to regret telling you this — and R will give me absolute _hell_ to the end of time if she ever finds out — but…” He takes a deep breath. “Let’s go blow it up.”

James’ grin widens. “Q. You say the most enticing things.”

Q rolls his eyes. “What’s all this?” he asks, standing to help with the garment bags.

“This one’s a suit for you, and these ones are our dinner jackets. The train has a formal dining car.”

“Our di— are we going on a date?”

Bond smirks. “We won’t be let out of our berth in jeans and tee shirts, and we need to be able to see who else is there, in case the trap is sprung early.”

Q shrugs in acknowledgment.

“So yes, we are,” James says with a grin. “Besides, I’ve always wondered how you'd clean up.”

Q rolls his eyes, but looks pleased. “I should shave, then. The beard helps a bit with subverting facial recognition software, but I suppose we’re beyond worrying about that if we’re just walking into the lair.”

“You can still back out, Q. I’m sure you can rig some sort of earpiece for me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, taking the suit and excusing himself to the ensuite.

They make the train platform with little time to spare. The berth is roomy, as such things go, set up now as a table with booth seating, but convertible into a double bed, a bit tighter than the ones they’ve been sharing. Bond puts the duffles in the overhead storage and hangs the dinner jackets behind the door while Q unpacks the computer equipment and sets up on the table. As the train starts to move, Bond sits across from Q and slides a holster over to him.

“What’s this?”

“I want you armed. We can’t take the machine guns we pilfered in Austria with us, so I acquired another handgun. You take the Walther.”

“What did you acquire?” Q asks, taking the Walther apart and inspecting it, out of habit more than lack of trust, James thinks.

James holds out the Beretta. “Not as nice as what you build, but it will do."

Q restores the Walther and hands it back.  "I actually prefer the Beretta, I just make Walthers for you because that's _your_ preference."

James trades him, pleased with the comfortable and familiar feel of the Walther in his hand.  "Do you need help resizing the shoulder holster?”

Q just gives him a look and starts adjusting the buckles with confidence, as he does so many things. James is no longer surprised, in fact, when Q knows things or when he takes new roles in stride. Because other than being _actually kidnapped_ , the only part of this mission that seems to have fazed him at all is the suit James bought him. It fits him perfectly, but Q complains it’s too tight and shifts his shoulders under the jacket as if trying to stretch it.

It seems anything posh throws Q for a bit of a loop, which seems odd given the amount of cash he pulled from his accounts in Zurich. James had expected Q to be awkward or worried or distracted in the field, and he’s anything but. The only other issue is that when he’s at the computer he’s too tuned out from his surroundings to be adequately on guard. James will just have to be his bodyguard in those moments. Keep an eye on him.

All the better now that it means he can also admire Q in the new suit that makes him look like some modern, hip version of a character from _Brideshead Revisited_.

Q hadn’t been able to connect with Eve this morning, so he tries again from the train, but without any luck. They check the news to see if they’ve missed anything important, but other than the Nine Eyes vote, things seem suspiciously quiet. It’s late afternoon by the time Q closes the shell of his computer, giving up on finding anything useful. He looks across at James, who’s busied himself reading an actual newspaper. Q seems almost nervous, eying the dinner jacket and narrow doorway to their very small loo.

“I think I’ll go do a bit of recon so you can get ready in peace,” James says, folding his paper. “Dinner is at 6. I’ll be back at half past to change.”

Q nods, relief clear on his face.

Bond does a circuit around the train, watching for anyone who looks familiar or like they might be casing him. He catches one retreating figure that niggles in the back of his mind, but he doesn’t see the man’s face fully, and decides trying to chase him down to see if he’s behaving suspiciously would, in fact, appear suspicious. He hopes to get another look later.

When he returns to the cabin, Q is gone, but there’s a note saying he’ll meet James at their table. Bond has twenty minutes to shave again and get his dinner jacket on, but as he’s washing — shirt off, shaving lather on — there’s a knock on the door.

“Turndown service, sir?” a voice asks when James checks to see who it is. He draws his gun behind his back and cracks the door open.

“Would it be better if I came back later?” a man in a uniform asks, eying Bond’s state of undress.

Bond looks back at the table, noting that Q apparently took his computer with him, or put it in the safe. He rather hopes for the latter.

“Now is fine,” he says, stepping back to let the man in, not being particularly careful about concealing his weapon.

The man’s eyes widen, but he gets to work as James watches him in the mirror while he shaves and cleans up. The table is lowered, a mattress roll is removed from a compartment under the bench seating and spread over the top. Then the entire thing is made up with fairly luxurious linens and a down comforter. James has finished shaving and is buttoning up his shirt when the man turns and asks, ”One chocolate or two?”

“Oh, at least two,” James says, reaching for his tie. A moment later he’s ushering the man out with a healthy tip, pleased he didn’t have to sort that all on his own. He hangs the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door and locks up as he leaves, in case any other helpful attendants wander through.

He’s surprised to find Q isn’t at their table yet, but allows himself to be seated and enjoy the view. It gets even better when the door at the end of the dining car opens and Q steps in. The dinner jacket fits him _perfectly_ , accentuating his lean but muscular body. But that’s not all. He’s wearing contacts, and without the thick frames, Q face is open and vulnerable, dominated by his high cheekbones and bright, intense eyes. Q’s put some product in his hair that makes the curls of his fringe fall across his brow in a way that makes Bond’s fingers twitch to touch. He approaches and sits across from James, who can’t quite formulate a greeting.

“You shouldn’t stare,” Q finally says, though his smile shows he’s _clearly_ pleased James is staring.

“You shouldn’t look like that,” James counters, managing to pick his jaw up off the floor and regain some semblance of poise as the waiter approaches to ask if they want an apéritif.

James cocks an eyebrow at Q.

“What kind of cherries do you have?” Q asks the waiter. “Dark?”

He straightens, surprised by the question. “Luxardo, sir.”

“That’ll do,” Q nods. “I’ll take a rye Manhattan with an extra splash of… do you have Nocello?”

“We have Nero walnut liqueur.”

“A splash of that. And the cherry, not a twist.”

“Very good, sir. And for you?” he asks, turning to Bond.

James barely conceals his smile at Q’s detailed order. “Vodka martini, dirty,” he answers, keeping his eyes on Q.

“Shaken or stirred?”

James waves the question off, dismissing the waiter. “Surprise me.”

Q looks amused now, shaking his head and biting back a grin as he resumes their previous conversation. “You’re the one who bought it,” he says, checking that his tie is straight.

“Q, I’m not looking at the dinner jacket.”

Q tries to adjust his glasses and, upon realizing that they aren’t on his face, deliberately folds his hands together on the table to stop fidgeting. He’s rewrapped his fingers, and they look almost normal— no longer so swollen, and with a thinner dressing. James is pleased to note they seem to be bothering him less.

“Have you sorted the, uh, _alarm_ on your watch?” Q asks into the somewhat awkward silence that has descended between them.

“Haven’t had a need.” James admires the fine watch on his wrist. “Is it more complicated than pushing the button on the side and setting the timer?”

“Well, we wouldn’t want it going off accidentally while it’s still attached to your wrist. There’s a sensor that prevents it from detonating until it’s been removed. Ten second delay.  And there’s a code. Your moniker.”

Clever. Effective, but safe. “Numeric form?”

Q nods. “Three digits. Figured you’d guess it, if need be.”

“If I’m in a position to use it, probably best not to have to guess. Is there anything I should know about your watch?”

Q brushes the digital display of his watch, and a new icon appears. A ghost with a red circle and line across it — like that old film. Q looks at him pointedly. “The code is the same as yours. No sensor.”

“And what does it do?”

Q takes a sip of water. “I found the name of the organization when I was reading their files,” he says quietly, though the car is still virtually empty. “‘Spectre’,” he says with a disdainful flourish.

Bond bites back a laugh. “Because they move through society like ghosts.”

“Or so they like to think. It’s all rather cartoonish, so…” he holds his watch up.

“So you wrote a ‘Ghostbuster’ app,” James concludes.

“Something like that. I was getting punchy toward the end there. My geek might be showing.”

“Do you honestly think there are times it doesn’t show?” James asks in a voice that’s far too fond.

Q affects a mildly affronted expression and straightens his bowtie, making Bond laugh.

“It’s part of your charm,” James assures him.

Their drinks arrive, and he has just a moment to contemplate the way Q eats the cherry first when he sees something in the reflection of the silver shaker. Is that—?

“Shit!”

He barely has time to brace himself before the table is flying upward at a kick from the ever-subtle… Mr. Jinx? No, Hinx. That arse from Rome. James draws his gun, but is almost immediately disarmed. Because Hinx is _huge_. Bond is fit… still at the top of his game, or at least near it… but he can’t compete with someone nearly a foot taller and several stones more massive.

But he tries.

The destruction is terrible. Bond’s faster and more nimble, but whenever Hinx _does_ manage to get hands on him, he uses Bond as a fucking wrecking ball, taking out large sections of the train. Q tries to intercede by hitting him over the head with a heavy, metal ashtray, but gets knocked to the floor for his trouble. Bond doesn’t even have time to check on him. The attack is relentless. They’ve smashed their way through two dining cars and retreated to a refrigerated section of the kitchen before Bond acknowledges, at least to himself, that he’s losing. The man is massive. Too strong, too big. Bond is tenacious and opportunistic, flinging oil lamps and pots and corkscrews, but it isn’t enough. Visions of Q sprawled out on the floor of the dining car and the memory of him pressed up against James’ body earlier that morning have Bond fighting with everything he has. But still, he finds himself about to be thrown off the train, clinging to a bar with one hand to prevent it. And then even that small hope is taken as Hinx pries Bond’s hand loose.

He should have kissed Q’s neck this morning. He should have told the boffin _something._ Anything.

Hinx gives him a smug grin, and a gunshot rings out.

It takes James a moment to realize it wasn’t him that was hit. Gasping on the train floor again, vision blurry, he sees Q approach a slumped Hinx, gun drawn. He shoots again at nearly point-blank range, and Hinx jerks and grunts but doesn’t fall. Now Q is in arm’s reach, and Hinx is straightening. And if James didn’t have much of a chance against Hinx in hand-to-hand combat, Q has _none._

James scrambles to his feet beside Q, eying anything he might use for leverage. Heavy kegs are chained together near the door. If he could somehow attach them to Hinx and push one out the door, he’d follow. He’s reaching for a rope as Hinx lunges, and Q fires again, this time straight in the heart. Hinx staggers back, offering Q a confused look as he balances precariously in the doorway. Then he’s gone.

James can barely fathom the wide empty door or the fact that he’s not the one falling through it. For a moment, he and Q both just stare at it, panting from exertion and adrenaline, backing away as if Hinx might still reach through and grab them.

And then, from one breath to the next, the spell is broken, and they both unfreeze. James sags back against the crates of food, and Q holsters the gun and turns to him, fingers already frantically searching along James’ shirt.

“Are you okay? What did he do to you?”

“I’m fine, Q.” But he doesn’t seem to hear. Or he needs to reassure himself, checking the crisp white dinner jacket for seeping blood. There’s none to be found. “Just a bit of bruising is all.”

There’s a desperation in Q’s eyes that Bond recognizes, but has never seen in the boffin before. A heady mixture of adrenaline and fear and disbelief at still being alive. He’s _felt_ it many times, and he senses it now in Q’s probing fingers and intense eyes.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive,” James assures. And when Q doesn’t stop searching him for injuries, he adds, “My backup saved me.”

That startles a laugh out of Q, and he looks up into Bond’s face, worry melting to more familiar mischief and care, coupled with an unfamiliar heat and intensity. “Well. You were in distress.”

“So I was,” James admits, stomach flipping again at the memory of nearly being pushed from the train. ‘Good thing—”

But Q’s lips are on his. Hot. Demanding. Forceful — all teeth and tongue and _fucking hell_ it’s perfect.

James wraps his arms around Q’s back and holds on for dear life.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the additional tags. Yes, we're finally here, and I've changed the rating to explicit for safety's sake.
> 
> Very special thanks to Midrashic and Ducky for encouraging me through my block, and all of you who have been commenting (for the same, really). I love getting the feedback, and it's so motivating. To the reader who asked that they share the chocolate, I've added that. I also had to go back and fix a small detail in the last chapter (8) because of an issue it raised in chapter 12 (which I'm drafting now). Sorry about that, but it's pretty minor. And I've continued to muck with this chapter; any mistakes are my own...please don't fault Midrashic or Ducky.
> 
> So, where were we? Oh, yes...

**Threshold dose** _noun._ \ˈthresh-ˌhōld, dōs\

1: the lowest amount or exposure level of a substance at which a specified and measurable effect manifests

 

They burst through the door of their berth still kissing. Or kissing again. James has little memory of how they got back here, but Q is already pushing his jacket off his shoulders as Bond deadbolts the door behind him.

James walks Q backward toward the bed, grateful it’s already made up. Jackets and ties have hit the floor, shoes have been abandoned, and Q’s deft, frantic fingers are making quick work of the frankly _ungodly_ number of buttons between them, despite the brace on his fingers. James grasps his arse and pulls him closer so their erections press together through their trousers, and it’s fucking _glorious_.

“Bloody hell,” Q moans against his lips, and then he’s pulling out of James’ arms and is… gone.

James opens his eyes and turns just in time to see Q disappear into the small loo.

“Q? Is something wr—”

But he’s back and kissing James again. Purposefully, as if Q’s clever mind has finally caught up with his adrenaline. He presses something into James’ hand — lube and a few condoms — and everything suddenly feels very _real_. James remembers that first night in the cabin, Q’s awkward, hurt reaction to waking in James’ arms.

Q is not a mark, and not some temporary ally James can burn off some post-traumatic energy with.

“Are you sure, Q?” he breathes, pressing their brows together and forcing himself to pause a moment rather than barrel forward like he _always_ does. “You… before, you didn’t want this.”

Q looks up into his face, green eyes dark, but clear. “Are you going to forget me?”

_Impossible._ If nothing else, the way that Q is looking at him right now will be forever etched into James’ mind.

“Never.”

A small smile quirks at the corner of Q’s lips, not so different from the first smile Q ever gave him in the museum months ago. Confident and a little wry.

“Good.” Q’s lips are on his again, fingers working the buttons of his shirt. Not frantic, like before. Not shaking from the stress of nearly dying and needing to feel _alive_ , but a different imperative. “Then take me to bed.”

It’s the urgency of wanting something for a very long time and _finally_ having it. The way he’s wanted Q all these nights and has held back. He briefly wonders how long Q has wanted _him_ before answering, “With pleasure.”

His shirt is finally open, vest pushed up so Q can explore his bare skin, which is… _Christ,_ how can that feel so good?

He cups the back of Q’s head and kisses him fiercely, taking some control. Q relinquishes a bit, almost like giving way in a sparring match, but it’s not until he gets Q’s shirt open enough to expose that long, elegant neck and he presses an open-mouthed kiss to Q’s pulse point that Q moans and melts against James in pleasure.

And _that_ is lovely. Q’s mind, normally so focussed and sharp, seems to stutter and trip on sensation as James sucks a bruise and eases him back onto the bed. Eyes closed, mouth slightly open, Q seems content to just _feel_ as James lays him out on the bed and kisses every bit of newly-exposed skin as he removes each item of clothing until Q is laid out beneath him, all pale, flushed skin and dark curls and subtle, lithe muscles.

_Fucking_ gorgeous. James kicks off his trousers and pants, actually tears the button of his cuff in his haste to remove his shirt, and lowers himself over Q until their cocks are brushing. Even that small amount of intimate contact seems almost overwhelming. Q arches back and up against James’ chest, raising a hand to thread fingers through James’ short hair.

“James,” he says, that posh voice going low and gravelly, and _fuck_ … James likes it. He can already tell this is going to be over far too quickly. Q is beautifully responsive, gasping and spreading his legs and arching into James’ touch, _almost_ lost in sensation, but murmuring his name, or running fingers down James’ back, so James is always sure Q is right there with him. Not truly lost, but _savoring_.

As James prepares him, Q is wonderfully vocal: delightfully encouraging and just this side of demanding.

And then James is pressing inside, watching Q’s face and nearly overwhelmed with _hot_ and _tight_ and that little furrow in Q’s brow as he concentrates on adjusting to James inside him.

It doesn’t take long.

Almost as soon as James is all the way in, Q is wrapping his legs around James’ waist, tilting his hips so James slides even further in, pulling at his shoulder and urging him forward. God, he’s flexible. Nearly bent in half as James begins thrusting in earnest, and just crying out for more.

“Oh god, right there… right—” Q’s face is a picture of bliss, even as his body shakes with James’ desperate thrusts. James tries to slow down, make it last, savor everything about _finally_ having Q, but it’s no use. Q opens his eyes and their gazes meet for a long second, and then Q arches back and comes, drawing James over the edge with him.

James manages to _not_ just collapse on Q, despite trembling arms. He eases himself out and up, padding off to the loo to dispose of the condom and clean up. He comes back a moment later with a warm flannel to find Q sprawled out on his back, a thick line of come painting his belly and chest, and a huge grin on his face.

The grin is contagious.

James startles a laugh from Q when the flannel touches his chest, but he tolerates being cleaned and budges over as James collapses onto the bed on his stomach.

“Hmm. Okay?” he asks as James adjusts the pillow and turns his face toward Q.

“Damn near perfect,” James answers.

“And so modest,” Q observes.

James lifts his head. “I wasn’t _bragging_. I was just… Oh. You’re teasing.”

“I am,” Q assures him with a grin as James settles his head back down on the pillow. “Though like all good teases, it’s based in reality. You are _very_ good.”

“As ever when I have you guiding me on mission,” James quips, smiling as Q snorts a laugh and mutters, “The mission to find Q’s prostate,” under his breath.

“Just so,” James confirms with a wicked grin.

Another laugh bubbles up between them, and Q rolls toward James and skims his hand up James’ back, through his hair, and back down again. It’s affectionate and satisfying, and James closes his eyes to luxuriate in it. He feels like purring.

A contented silence falls between them, until Q interrupts it with, “Do you know who he was?”

“Who who was?”

“The man I killed.”

Bond’s eyes fly open, something cold settling in his chest. Q still looks satisfied and content, though. Just curious.

“We met in Rome,” James acknowledges. “Don’t give him a second thought, Q. He was a very bad man. You should have seen the hideous shade of orange he painted a Jaguar C-X75 — though it was more of a “burnt orange” when your lovely ‘backfire’ feature had its way.”

“I’m not having regrets,” Q assures him, still running his fingers up and down James’ back. “He was trying to kill you and that’s reason enough to take him out. I was just — wait. Are you saying he was the one chasing you in Rome? _He’s_ the reason the DB10 is being extracted from the Tiber and will have to be _completely_ overhauled?”

“Yes,” James answers, pleased that for once Q isn’t focused on _his_ share of the blame.

“I killed him too quickly,” Q groans.

James bites back a grin and goes back to enjoying the path of Q’s fingers. It’s already starting to pull him from the brink of exhaustion to something approaching interest. Maybe he’ll be able to actually savor things next time… Q seems to be skirting that same line, his hand wandering lower and lower with each lazy pass, exploring the curve of James’ shoulders, back, arse...

“So he was definitely part of Spectre?”

“Hmmm,” James agrees. “Or a henchman if he didn’t merit actual membership.”

“So your brother probably knows we’re on the train.”

“Or he’s just covering his bases. He seems the type to have a perimeter established, so to speak. Mr. Hinx may have just been the lucky one to actually find us. Or the unlucky one, as it turns out.”

“Quite.” Q smirks. “Though I’m still rather put out that he ruined our date. I looked smart, too.”

“You did,” James agrees. “You looked delicious. Still do, actually.” James leans up enough to kiss Q on his amused lips. “Speaking of, we never did eat. Are you going to waste away in the night? I’m pretty sure they left a handful of chocolates when they made up the bed. They must be around here somewhere. Are you hungry?”

“Oh, I’m getting hungry,” Q says archly, his fingers dipping to James’ arse, slipping between his buttocks.

James flinches away and then curses his uncontrolled response as Q pulls his hand back.

“Sorry,” Q stammers. “I thought… I thought you’d had male lovers. You knew your way around—”

“I _have_ had male lovers.”

“Okay.” Q licks his lips, thinking. “But you don’t…” His eyes drift over to James’ arse.

James sighs, sorry to have their easy mood take this turn. “I’ve only ever bottomed when I had to for missions,” he admits. “I’ve never had a male lover I trusted enough to want to try.” That sounds terrible, since he obviously expected his partners to trust _him_. James shakes his head.

“I see.” Q has propped his head upon his hand and is looking down at James thoughtfully. His other hand rests on the small of James’ back, and James feels at once comforted by the connection and oddly bereft that Q’s hand is no longer wandering his body. “Forgive me for saying, but it sounds more like you’ve had male fucks than male lovers.” There’s no judgment in his voice. It’s just an observation, but James finds it mildly depressing.

“That’s probably true for me regarding men and women,” James concedes. “So, do you think these things need to be… even? For two men to be considered lovers?”

“No,” Q answers, leaning forward to kiss James’ shoulder. “Some men just don’t like being penetrated.” A smile quirks on his lips. “Crazy men who have clearly never been taken care of properly. But that’s not what you said.” His face is serious again. “You said you didn’t trust them enough.”

That _is_ what he said. It feels the more vulnerable position to him… something he’s willing to do if a mission requires it, but otherwise… let’s just say it isn’t often that he allows _anyone_ to see his soft underbelly. But as he so often reminds himself, Q isn’t a mark and isn’t someone he’s picked up in a bar. He _knows_ Q. And Q knows him, probably more than James has consciously meant to share.

“I trust you,” James offers.

“Good,” Q says, kissing his shoulder. “I’m glad of that. And I trust you, too. In quite a few ways.”

Q’s hand is on the move again, but staying stubbornly north of James’ arse, which he’s actually finding disappointing.

“So did you want to…” James tries again, feeling oddly shy and awkward.

Q quirks an eyebrow at him. “Have you seen your arse? Of course I want to... but not tonight,” he adds, leaning forward to kiss James’ shoulder again.

Tonight may be all they have, but he doesn’t dare bring that up. “Why not?”

“Because it’s not a litmus test,” Q answers easily, fingers trailing up to his neck, lips brushing along James’ shoulder blade. “Because you shouldn’t have to talk yourself into wanting it — though if you ever _do_ decide you want me to, I’ll make it so good you’ll realize that despite your reputation and obvious skills, you’ve been doing sex _wrong_ your entire life.” James snorts a laugh at that. “Because there are so many other tantalizing ways to touch you that I haven’t explored yet,” Q adds, pushing at James so he rolls onto his back. Q kisses his way down James’ chest, across his stomach. _God_ , James already wants him again. He’s growing hard, aching as Q’s hot breath moves lower. “We probably won’t have time to get to it,” Q concludes.

And with that, Q slides his mouth over James’ cock and _bloody hell._ Over the next few minutes, James learns just how meticulous Q can be when he decides to take his time with something. _Christ,_ he’s good. James threads his fingers through Q’s soft curls, not taking control, but relishing the feel, and just as he’s about to drag Q up his body so he can kiss him properly, he hears the rip of a condom wrapper, and Q’s mouth is replaced by warm hands rolling it down and coating it with lube. Then Q is crawling up James’ body, straddling James’ hips, lowering himself onto James’ cock until—

“Oh, fuck,” James whispers, grasping Q’s hips and guiding him down the rest of the way.

“That _is_ rather the idea,” Q quips breathlessly, already rocking his hips and undulating his torso in a way James finds unbelievably seductive and alluring, though he’s sure Q is merely doing what feels good to him. It’s mesmerizing, though, those lean muscles rippling as Q sways and rocks and rides James like some fae creature.

If the result is this lean, flexible strength, James decides he’s a _very_ big fan of yoga.

He reaches for the lube, no longer content to passively enjoy Q’s ministrations. He coats his hand and slides it over Q’s long, narrow cock.

“Oh, Christ,” Q breathes, closing his eyes.

“‘James’ will do,” he quips, drawing a huff of laughter from Q.

He takes his time, learning what Q likes. Learning where to apply pressure and when to twist his wrist just a little and slide the foreskin back… every pleasure is in Q’s face and James learns to read it all like a book. And then, abruptly, Q is rocking with more urgency, whispering James’ name.

“That’s it, Q,” he encourages. “I’m close, too. But I want you to come first. Just like this. Come on, Q. Paint me.”

Q’s eyes widen and he looks down on James, his expression bordering on shock. And then he groans and comes in thick ropes across James’ chest.

“That’s it. _Yes_!” James grasps Q’s hips and thrusts up, hard, over and over, chasing his orgasm as Q is rocked by the aftershocks of his own. One, two, three more thrusts and he’s coming, pulling Q down into a fierce kiss and tasting himself on Q’s tongue.

They breathe each other’s air for a moment, frozen in a satisfied bliss, James’ fingers tangled in Q’s curls. Then exhaustion hits, and James lets his arms flop back onto the bed.

“I think it’s my turn to find a flannel,” Q whispers, offering one more kiss before easing himself off James and out of bed. He’s a bit wobbly as he walks to the loo, and James can’t help but grin in satisfaction. The sound of the tap running fades in and out of his notice as he starts to drift off, pulled back from the brink of sleep by Q’s hand in his hair and a warm flannel on his chest.

“Budge over,” Q demands after putting the flannel away.

James rolls toward the far side of the bed, the crinkle of cellophane betraying the location of the chocolates beside the pillow. He picks one up and unwraps it as Q slides in behind him.

“What’s this?” Q asks as James offers the chocolate over his shoulder.

“It’ll have to count as dinner, since we’ve already had dessert.”

Q huffs a laugh and eats it from James’ fingers. “Decadent,” he comments, lying down and wrapping an arm over James.

“Hmmm. You’re cold,” James complains lightly, popping a second chocolate into his mouth and then threading his fingers through Q’s and pulling him closer.

“Removed my contacts,” Q explains, nuzzling his face into James’ shoulder.

James scoots back until they are pressed together head to toe, hoping to warm Q more quickly. He drifts off surprised at how familiar the position feels.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as ever to Midrashic and Ducky... especially to Midrashic for pointing out my errors in canon and making sure that my variations are intentional and not just because my memory is like a sieve.
> 
> Thanks also to all of you who are offering comments and in some cases suggestions for minor plot points. No promises I'll work them in, but the more ways I can fix Spectre the better...

**Privacy Threshold Assessment** _noun._ \prī′və-sē, ˈthresh-hōld, ə-sĕs′mənt\

1: evaluation of whether private information in a data stream requires special compliance safeguards for handling

 

He wakes to bright light coming through the train window and Q’s curls tickling his nose. He’s flush with Q’s back, spooning him from behind, and _hard_. As usual.

Q is naked and rocking his arse back into James’ cock, which is _not_ usual. The events of last night come rushing back as James tightens his arm around Q’s waist.

“James,” Q sighs.

“Aren’t you sore?” he asks, because his body is quickly making its desires known, but he’s already taken Q twice in the last few hours.

“No,” Q answers after a brief hesitation.

“You’re a terrible liar, for a spy.” James kisses Q’s shoulder and starts to pull away.

“I am,” Q agrees, grasping James’ hand so he stays. “A bad liar, that is. But I’m not that sore. I’ve woken up with your cock pressed against my arse more mornings than not lately, and I’ve been thinking about this for _ages_. Please. Just, go slow. Like this.”

 _Christ_ , he is never going to be able to deny Q anything. Not when that posh voice goes all sleepy and gravelly. He reaches behind him for the lube.

It’s almost dreamlike, the slow way he eases Q open, slips inside him, wraps a slick hand around Q’s cock so they are each rocking gently into wet heat together. Almost easy, the way his face is buried in the crook of Q’s neck. James tasting him, feeling his curls, hearing his gasps and little whimpers. Q reaches back to stroke James’ hair, bends his neck to offer James more access, rocks with him in easy, hazy pleasure, building slowly but inexorably toward some imperative.

It’s nothing like last night. It’s not frantic or playful. James could almost imagine it _was_ a dream until Q’s fingers tighten, he sighs James’ name, and he comes across James’ hand. James follows him over the brink a moment later with a soft sob into Q’s neck.

They don’t move to separate. James wipes his hand on the sheet, and Q grasps it and tucks it back against his chest, resuming their sleep positions, except that James is still buried deep inside him.

It’s the most intimate thing James has done in… he’s not even sure. They don’t speak as they wait for their breathing to recover. As Q’s evens out, James wonders if he’s actually going to fall back to sleep like this. They could, maybe, depending on the time. James twists his hand so he can see his watch.

Q groans in protest and asks, “When do we reach our station?”

“Hmm. Noon. In about three hours.”

Q sighs. He’s still for a moment longer, then raises James’ hand to his lips, holds it there for a moment, and untangles their fingers. By the time he sits up, his shoulders are square and determined, and as he walks gingerly to the loo, he’s definitely the Quartermaster again, despite his nudity.

James swears that if they get out of this alive, he’s going to take Q to dinner, check them into some hotel, and not let him leave the bed for _days_. The revelation actually startles him.

Hours later — after Q made brief contact with Eve and was abruptly forced off her screen, which had the boffin rather worried — they are dressed, packed, and disembarking onto a small empty platform in the middle of godforsaken desert. There is literally nothing on the landscape except the slightest hint of a raised feature off to the west. Far too distant to try to walk.

“This might be a long wait,” Bond says, scanning the horizon.

Q nods and sets his case and the suit bag containing his dinner jacket on a bench. He’s once again wearing the suit James bought him, and his computer case is still draped over his shoulder like an oversized accessory, because he rarely sets _that_ down. He’s anxiously fiddling with it as he scans their surroundings.

“Maybe not,” he replies, nodding to a band of dust approaching from the west.

They both watch as the car approaches. James can’t quite make out the shape. Maybe a Hummer; it seems too tall to be a sedan.

Q gets it first. “Oh my god, that’s a—”

“A 1948 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith,” James finishes, now that it’s close enough to make out. It’s in beautiful condition, too, despite the dust from the desert road. It would be a nice—

“No,” Q says, cutting into James’ thoughts. When James looks over, he finds an amused expression on Q’s face. “I’m not building you a 1948 Wraith with… rocket launchers or whatever it is going through your mind. It’s impractical. Can you even imagine how hard it is to find parts?”

“My foster brother found them,” James tries, hoping Q’s competitive nature would respond to a gauntlet being thrown down.

“Nice try, Bond,” he tosses back, picking up the suitcase.

They don’t ask for identification, and none is offered as the driver comes around to open their doors and put their cases in the boot. They are silent during the drive, but James observes Q tracking their movement toward the crater using the app on his watch. Satisfied that they are heading where James assumed they were heading, Q checks another app and then shuts down the display.

The crater is bigger than it appeared on the satellite image, and Q seems keen to get a good look as they approach, craning his neck as James does his best to look bored.

First rule of espionage: never let your adversary know you’re impressed.

They enter through a gate and pull up to a paved walkway, where they’re greeted by a tall man in a suit.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bond, Mr. Crisium.”

Bond raises a brow at Q, but he seems unfazed by the name.

“I want you to know just how excited we all are to finally meet you.”

Q remains quiet, so James carries their side of the fake niceties. “Well, it's a pleasure to be here.”

The gentleman seems pleased that Bond is playing along. “Your host invites you both to rest, relax, and join him for drinks at 4:00.”

“Tell our host we won't be late.”

“Wonderful. Before we show you to your rooms, just one more thing.”

He holds out a silver tray, empty, and looks meaningfully at Bond.

Oh. James removes his gun from the holster. “You be careful with that. It's loaded.”

“Thank you. This way.”

“Another gun bites the dust,” Q mutters under his breath as they fall in behind the gentleman.

James is sorely tempted to ask about Q’s name, but now is not the time. Nor does he draw attention to the fact that Q did not turn in _his_ gun. Perhaps he’s already lost it. James can’t see the telltale shape of the shoulder holster under Q’s jacket.

They reach Q’s room first, and he can’t help the twist in his gut at meeting Q’s eyes as a door closes between them — and clicks into a locked position. Curious about whether Q locked the door or was locked in, James smiles graciously at his guide as he enters his own room, checking a moment later to confirm he can’t open the door.

So they won’t be late for drinks, but they won’t be early either. Unable to explore the facility, he explores the room instead. It’s set up like a posh, modern, somewhat minimalist hotel, nothing interrupting the muted colors and sleek lines, with two exceptions. On the bed, a new suit is laid out, cut exactly the way Bond likes. Closer inspection reveals the fabric has an almost iridescent sheen. The weave makes the color vary from navy to an almost royal blue depending on the light. It’s nothing he would ever choose, but it’s fashionable and modern.

Unlike the other exception. In the corner by the window stands a mahogany baby grand piano, not unlike the one he never quite took to as a boy. And atop it are framed pictures. Portraits and snapshots. Vesper has a place of honor near the middle, but M is there, too. And Mathis. People he’s cared for in one way or another and lost.

Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say they were taken. Mixed in with those pictures are others, with less pleasant and less complicated associations: Silva, Mr. White, Le Chiffre. They are displayed with honor, like some horror film version of family portraits on a beloved grandparent’s instrument. And in the center of it all is a very familiar picture — he recently found his own copy in the box of burned artifacts from Skyfall — he and Franz standing together on a ski slope with the man that had fostered him before becoming yet another dead father figure.

The message seems obvious. Franz is declaring himself the ringmaster of Bond’s circus of a life. A conductor, throwing people into his path just to take them away. He’s gloating.

Anger bubbles in his chest as he glances in the corners of the ceiling for cameras. Even if he can’t see the surveillance devices, he’s sure he’s being watched. Sure Franz is deriving some voyeuristic thrill in cataloging James’ reactions. So he does his best to not show any, other than a small smirk. Because it _is_ well played, trying to get under his skin like this. Hinting at just how long James's long "dead" foster brother has been building up and tearing down his life to make James pay for some perceived trespass, like a reckless toddler building sandcastles just for the joy of destroying them. _Think on your sins._ The message had been from Silva to M, but perhaps it was also meant from Oberhauser to James, if Franz has really been a puppeteer so long.

It’s unsettling, but at the same time a relief to see where Oberhauser has gotten it wrong. If James were the sort to display “family” photos — which he’s clearly _not_ — M would be the only one of this lot he’d include. Missing from these ranks are many others. Kincade. Friends from the Navy he’s lost touch with, but who were important parts of his life at the time. Q. He’s rather wishing he had a picture of Q now, but he’s relieved not to see him in this grouping.

He picks up the picture of M. It’s not one he’s seen before. She’s almost smiling. Deciding that it gives no more away to show some sentimentality on this matter, he removes the picture from the frame and puts it in the breast pocket of his jacket. The picture of Madeleine as a child is still there as well. He’s not sure why he took it. It just seemed wrong to leave it in that hidden room, never to be visited again.

He doesn’t want to give away any more of his thoughts to whoever may be watching, and he does actually need to think. Figuring it will annoy Franz the most if Bond seems unaffected and relaxed, he sets the alarm on his watch (the quiet alarm, not the rather loud alarm), lies on the bed, puts his hands behind his head, and closes his eyes. He doubts he’ll sleep, but he may as well make himself as boring to watch as possible.

He’s still feeling pleasantly shagged out but he can’t enjoy it. It feels odd being separated from Q, and he’s worried. Has Q been greeted with a similar mind trip? Has Oberhauser discovered anything _real_ enough about him to be threatening? He has a name at least. Mr. Crisium. James has no idea if it’s a real name or just another alias. It might be as unworrying as threats against Laney. He hopes that’s the case. Crisium doesn’t _sound_ like a proper surname… it sounds like Latin.  Sounds as ill-fitting as Brandon.

But Q seemed willing to answer to it.

The hours drag on, with Bond’s mind wandering from the connections Oberhauser may have with various missions and events in his life to last night on the train to worrying about Q. Part of him wishes Q weren’t here. He needs the backup, and Q has proven himself very useful, but he doesn’t want to see him hurt. Then again. Q has handled himself well, stayed alert, even when being interrogated. Clever. He’s not sure what Q has rigged his watch to do, but he has a feeling it will be spectacular. He hopes they get to use it. He hopes he lives long enough to see the beautiful destruction of the aftermath.

He gets up eventually, washes in the ensuite, and changes into the suit Franz laid out for him. It seems they’ll be participating in some theatrics; he may as well look the part. The jacket is a little snug, actually, not quite lying evenly against his torso as he buttons it after transferring his wallet and the pictures to an inner pocket. Designed that way, perhaps, so he can’t possibly hide a shoulder holster under it. He’s still trying to smooth the lines when there’s a knock on his door. It opens now, and he’s relieved to find Q with their escort on the other side. The boffin looks a bit pale, but similarly refreshed in a new grey suit and tie. James can’t quite interpret his expression, but takes his place beside Q to follow their guide, relieved at least that Q seems unharmed. The suit, however, looks more like something a banker would wear than a nerdy boffin with an eye for trendy, almost anti-fashion styles.

James immediately hates it. _And_ hates that it fits, which means Franz is paying Q far more attention than James is comfortable with.

“The suit I bought suits you better,” he whispers to Q, earning a surprised snicker.

Q seems full of nervous energy as they are led down a walkway. It’s still quite warm, and Bond can appreciate the modern oasis feel of the place, but Q shakes his head and seems more disdainful than curious or appreciative. It makes James wonder again at what he found in his room. They are led to a door, where their escort turns to them, and says ostentatiously, “This is a very special place. Your host has requested you enter it alone.”

“Of course,” Bond answers politely as Q rolls his eyes. He’s in a mood. Apparently thinking on _his_ sins has made Q unwilling to suffer fools.

“Champagne?” their guide offers.

If possible, Q rolls his eyes harder. “Maybe later,” Bond answers, holding the door open for Q to go through.

They enter a dark circular room — a planetarium theater — with an object situated on a stand in the center. A sizeable rock in a place of honor.

As their eyes adjust, they move slowly forward. He leans over to Q and whispers, “I think we’re meant to be impressed.”

Q snorts.

“Touch it. You can touch it if you want.”

James hadn’t even noticed someone else in the room, but he’d know that voice anywhere. Oberhauser approaches from the shadows, still only partially illuminated. He has a thing for hiding his face, it seems.

“Do you know what it is?”

“It's a meteorite,” Bond answers, because he doesn’t mind playing this game, and he doesn’t think Q is as likely to participate.

“Yes, exactly,” Oberhauser confirms. “The Kartenhoff. The oldest in human possession. The very meteorite which made this crater.”

Q snorts. _Loudly._

“Think about it,” Oberhauser continues, tone showing some annoyance with the interruption. “So many years up there, alone, silent, building momentum until it chose to make its mark on Earth. A huge, unstoppable force.”

“Except it did stop, didn't it?” Bond asserts, not really in the mood for a lecture on fate or inevitability. Or _himself,_ if Franz is trying to make some metaphor about Bond’s destructive, solitary nature. “Right here.”

“Oh, for the love of Steve,” Q complains. “No, it _didn’t_. I mean, of course it stopped. _Somewhere_. But not here. This isn’t an impact crater.”

Bond turns to Q, eyebrow raised. He’s about to whisper something about not pissing off the resident psychopath, but it’s too late. Q’s already turned to Oberhauser and taken a deep breath.

“I did a bit of research when I got the coordinates for your _lair_ from the late Mr. White. Scientists still seem to be debating, but we’re standing either in the caldera of a very ancient volcano or in an eroded relict of an even _older_ geologic feature. Slow, boring processes of mountain building and erosion. Nothing so flashy or _sexy_ as an extinction-generating impact from space. But your version is very dramatic. Well done, you. Still, your little… fiction,” Q waves his hand toward the meteorite, “makes me wonder how much other history you’ve rewritten to manufacture a perfect story for yourself. Because this crater was certainly not made by that lump of iron, any more than your pain was caused by this lump,” he finishes, motioning to Bond with his thumb.

Bond bites back a grin.  No. Q is not at all in the mood to suffer fools.  He moves a bit closer to Q, as if to shield him. As if he needs shielding.

Any false warmth that Franz had been exuding is instantly gone.

“Mr. Crisium. I admit I was surprised to learn you were joining our little reunion, though I have noticed your fingerprints on the various attempts to keep me at bay.  Max is finding you rather vexing.”

“That’s mutual,” Q mutters under his breath.

“Still, the more the merrier.  Any reunion is a party of sorts.  And James, I can't tell you how much I've been looking forward to this.  I'm so glad you came, even if you brought a guest. And as it turns out, I have a plus-one, as well.”

He reaches behind him into the shadow and pulls Madeleine to his side, keeping a firm hand on her upper arm.

For a moment James thinks that Q’s been right about her all along — that she’s part of Spectre or actually involved with Oberhauser — but then he sees her expression. She’s terrified. Lovely, impeccably dressed, resigned, and terrified.

“Dear Madeleine was just a girl when I saw her first, visiting her father on important business. Now look at her. All grown up and playing her role.”

Madeleine looks pleadingly at James. He doesn’t know her well enough to understand the expression. Does she want him to do something? Understand something? Help her? She did help him, after all, with the note about L'Americain. One thing he is sure of is that she’s not there as Franz’s eye candy.

“Well, shall we?” Oberhauser motions to a door in the side wall, waiting for Q and Bond to go through.

And that’s when he realizes. Q has gone utterly silent. And when James glances at him, Q won’t meet his eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Ducky and Midrashic for the fabulous hand-holding, and especially to Midrashic for giving me so many resources on Spectre so that I can use the canon to deviate from it. Please note that there is a fair amount of canon dialogue in this chapter (though it doesn't always belong to who it belonged to in Spctre). Also, please note some additional tags, because drills...
> 
> Thanks to all of you for reading and commenting.

**Threshold of pain** _noun._ \ˈthresh-hōld, uhv, peyn\

1: the lowest intensity of stimulation at which pain is experienced

 

They enter a long room with a central walkway and two tiers of black-clothed personnel on either side, each tech facing a computer and ignoring the interlopers entering the chamber. Above them all, a sea of large monitors displays news, video feeds, documents, satellite images...

“What is this place?” Bond asks, though he can guess. It looks like a dystopian version of Q Branch — if the Minions had lost all their personality and sense of fun because their boss was a psychopathic megalomaniac bent on controlling the world.

“Information,” answers Franz, making some effort not to look smug and failing. “Information is all, is it not? For example, you must know by now that the Double-oh program is officially dead.” One monitor shows C speaking to several men in black suits. Another show M at a podium reviewing notes with Eve and Bill. Q is watching them, but not raptly. He’s scanning several other monitors, actually, returning often to the closest, which shows a young man walking away from MI6 in a hoodie and jeans in the dim light of dawn, presumably from earlier this morning. James has never seen him before. He could be one of Q’s minions, or he could be a nefarious hacker. Or just a random teen. Q quirks a smile as the man looks right into the CCTV camera and flips it off, but he still seems worried. “Which leads me to speculate exactly why you came. So, James, why did you come?”

James returns his attention to Oberhauser. The man can generally carry on a conversation all on his own, but he seems to want a response this time. “I came here to kill you,” James answers simply. Honesty _can_ be the best policy at times.

“And I thought you came here to die.”

James shrugs his indifference. The surveillance feed shows M turning to speak to a crowd of people within MI6, from the looks of it. He’s explaining the changes that are coming and that he’s leaving. Or, more likely, being pushed out.

“Is this live?” Bond asks, disturbed that Oberhauser seems to have direct access to MI6 video feeds. He looks at Q to see if he’s similarly disturbed.

“Live and direct,” Franz gloats. “16:20 GMT.”

No wonder they had to cool their heels in their rooms for several hours. Franz needed to time his drama. “What an uncanny coincidence,” he notes, drawing a snort from Q.

Franz’s eyes narrow. “Well, James, it looks like you're all alone.”

Q finally meets James’ gaze. He’s a bit pale, but his eyes are steady. James has never felt less alone in his life.

“Not much more than a voyeur, are you?” James counters, turning back to Franz and motioning to the monitors. “Too scared to join in?”

“I don't think you quite understand,” Franz protests.

“Oh, I think I do. You set cities on fire and watch innocent people burn so you can convince governments to join an intelligence network you've paid for. Not that complicated,” James shrugs. “C is one of your disciples, I presume.”

“You could say that,” Oberhauser concurs.

“And what does he get out of it?” Bond asks, distracted by the way Q is monitoring the monitors. Studying them, as if he can glean the connections back to his servers.

“Nothing. He's a visionary, like me.”

Q rolls his eyes and looks away, muttering, “Visionaries. Psychiatric wards are full of them.”

“Whereas you couldn't see what's right in front of you,” Oberhauser continues at Bond, trying to ignore the intrusion. James’ eyes are once again drawn to Q.

“You came across me so many times and yet you never saw me. Le Chiffre, Greene, Silva.”

“All dead,” Bond states. He knows where this is going, but he felt the anger earlier. In the car ride heading to Morocco, in his room with the pictures spread out like a shrine. It doesn’t really touch him now.

“A nice pattern developed,” Oberhauser agrees. “You interfered in my world; I destroyed yours. Or did you think it was a coincidence that all the women in your life ended up dead? Vesper Lynd, your beloved M. Gone forever. Me. It was all me, James. It's always been me. The author of all your pain. And now—”

“Oh, for the love of _god_ can we get on with the death and destruction or whatever comes next?” Q interrupts in an explosion of ire. “I’m losing brain cells just listening to this arse gloat.”

James bites back a grin and knows he’s looking at Q far too fondly. God, he’s in serious trouble with this one. He really is. Because despite everything that’s happening right now — end of the free world, his own impending death — he has an almost overwhelming desire to just _kiss_ Q in front of all of them.

“Funny you should mention losing brain cells, Mr. Crisium. That’s just what I had in mind.”

He waves at one of the techs and a new video feed loads into the nearest monitor. “It’s always so hard to decide,” Oberhauser continues. “Whether to kill you, James, or just hurt you again. Watch you become even more hollow. Even as I knew you were closing in, I couldn’t decide. I threw young Madeleine in your path, thinking she might tempt you.”

That’s when James realizes that the video is currently playing his last conversation with Mr. White. The one that ends with a gunshot.

“Turn this off,” James demands. “Madeleine, don’t watch it. Don’t watch him. Look at me.”

But she’s mesmerized by the video feed.

“Look!” James insists, reaching into his jacket pocket for the picture. “It was in the hidden room. He had it with him when he searched.” That draws her attention away from the monitor. She approaches, slowly, taking the photo even as the guards grab Bond and force him to his knees. “He never stopped thinking of you. He was—”

The recorded gunshot cuts him off and startles Madeleine, but it worked. The scene is over, and Madeleine did not witness her father’s suicide.

“Very touching,” Oberhauser commends, though his tone indicates it’s more of a complaint. “Even so, I don’t think you’ve formed any real attachment. I could hurt her, but it wouldn’t hurt you as well, so there’s no point. Not at the moment, anyway.” Madeleine blanches.

“Torture is easy, you see, on a superficial level. A man can watch himself being disemboweled and derive great horror from the experience, but it's still going on at a distance. It isn't taking place where _he_ is. As you know all too well, dear Madeleine, a man lives inside his head. That's where the seat of his soul is. His intellect. Anything that makes him special or unique.” Oberhauser looks at Q now, and James doesn’t like his expression. “James prides himself on his tolerance to pain. It doesn’t truly affect him where he lives. Which is why I’ve devised something very special. Come, I’ll show you.”

None of them has a choice; there are enough guards with guns to usher them along in their tour, any pretense that this is a friendly get-together clearly over. The next room they enter is completely white and chrome — more austere than most hospitals. At one end of the room, several chairs are arranged as if for observation, with a control panel featuring a digital display. The other side of the room boasts what appears to be an overwrought dental chair.

Somehow James doesn’t think anyone’s getting a teethcleaning.

“You’ll appreciate the precision of the device, Dr. Swann. The drill can penetrate specific parts of the brain, producing a vast array of different effects. I can probe in one area and play with sight, hearing, balance… just the subtlest of manipulations can make a person no longer trust their senses. Or I can modulate the depth and angle of penetration, and if the needle finds the correct spot in the fusiform gyrus, the person recognizes no one. Can maintain no connections. Of course, in James’ case, the faces of his women are interchangeable, aren't they?”

They weren’t _all_ interchangeable, as Franz well knows, based on the piano photos. And his latest lover… well, Q isn’t like anyone he’s had before. He looks over the boffin now to find the same wiry strength and steely gaze he’s come to expect. Q catches his eye, looks down at his feet and then back again. Not shyly. Not like he’s uncomfortable. It’s purposeful.

“So it wouldn’t be that different,” Oberhauser continues, looking back and forth between James and Q. “James forgetting a lover’s face would just be par for the course. But he’s used to being remembered, isn’t he? Everywhere he goes, he forgets the lives he crashes through, but he counts on being remembered. A rather odd trait in a spy, isn’t it?”

James is suddenly impatient, and sharing Q’s feelings from earlier. “Well, get on with it then. Nothing can be as painful as listening to you talk.”

“No…” Oberhauser says, still looking at James looking at Q. “I think once again I’ll be sparing your life for the pleasure of watching you suffer emotionally instead.”

James looks at Madeleine, confused.

“Mr. Crisium, do you know the first time we crossed paths?”

Q startles, surprised to be addressed after being ignored so long. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, really?” Franz chuckles and looks at Bond. “He’s a terrible liar, isn’t he?” Turning back to Q, he says, “Perhaps you’d be more inclined to answer if I used P1C4RD or J34N-1UC?”

Q snorts.

“You accused me of fabricating a history, but how many times have you reinvented your own?”

“None,” Q says easily. “Taking on a new alias is not the same as revising history. I _know_ who I am. Can you even tell your truths from fiction anymore?”

“Of course! That’s the key. The difference between genius and madness is the difference between _telling_ the stories and _believing_ the stories. Even with this crater, as you said, it’s the _key_. So tell me, Mr. Crisium, or Q, or Picard, how many fictions have you told him?” Oberhauser asks, motioning to James.

“None.” Q is almost solemn as he answers. “He knows better than to ask. Well, I suppose he overheard me tell you one. I suspect we first came across each other six years ago. The whole debacle with the Dublin banks… was that one of yours?”

“Yes,” Oberhauser answers, his icy voice losing all semblance of the fake-friendly, university lecturer persona he’d been displaying.

“Shame,” Q tuts. “Interpol looked over that pretty carefully when I… uh… sent them the electronic fingerprints on the transfers. They never caught up with you, though.”

“Several of my associates were sacrificed to make sure they didn’t.”

“Well, I’m sure they were honored to serve,” James interjects, not liking the way Franz is suddenly focused on Q. “Heil Hydra and all that.”

Q snorts a surprised laugh.

“I thought you wanted to make me pay for… whatever it was,” James continues.

Oberhauser gets control over his features and smiles, turning to Madeleine, who’s standing stiffly, eying all the guns still pointed at them.

“You probably know that James here lost his parents when he was young. But did you know that it was my father who helped him through this difficult time? Over the course of two winters he taught James to ski, and climb, and hunt. He soothed the wounds of the poor little blue-eyed orphan. Asked me to treat him as a brother. My little brother. They formed quite an attachment.”

“So, you killed him,” James surmises.

“Yes, I did.” He turns back to Madeleine. “You know what happens when a cuckoo hatches inside another bird's nest?”

“Yes,” she stammers. “It forces the other eggs out.”

“Yes. Well, this cuckoo,” Franz motions to James, “made me realize my father's life had to end. In a way, he's responsible for the path I took.”

“Wait,” Q interrupts. “James is the cuckoo in this metaphor, but you’re the one sacrificing family members? How does _that_ work?”

Oberhauser nods at his guards. They seize Q and start dragging him toward the chair.

“No!” James cries. He starts to reach for his watch, wanting to use it to get them free of this before Q can be hurt. But there are still guns and watchful eyes trained on all them. “Franz, he’s not the one you want to punish. Take me.”

“He has quite a special mind, doesn’t he? So clever. But it’s not just that.” James watches on as Q struggles against the goons forcing him into the reclined chair and pulling his hands to the cuffs behind its back. Oberhauser presses a sequence of buttons on the control panel, and the metal cuffs slide into a locked position, holding Q in place. “He understands the work,” Oberhauser continues. “Possibly understands _you_.” Q’s head is now restrained in place with a metal band around his crown. “And he has an odd sort of charm and beauty, I imagine. Was he lovely when you took him to bed?”

James’ insides go cold.

“I’ll bet he was. I’ll bet he made you see _god_. He clearly thinks the world of you. Why else would he be here? A few broken fingers? I don’t think so. The P1C4RD I knew was ruthless and unsentimental, though not without humor. I really misjudged your tastes,” he adds, glancing at Madeleine, “but this makes sense. When his eyes no longer light up when they see you… right on the cusp of all this potential. I’m going to enjoy that.” Franz watches James’ reaction for a moment, gloating. “And of course, while I have him in the chair, I may as well drill in a few other places to ensure his hacking days are over. Kill two birds with one stone…”

“So now we’re all birds?” Q asks, voice rising in panic. “We’re all birds, except for the bird?” He laughs at his own joke and pulls against the restraints.

“Don’t do this, Franz,” James pleads, a cold dread filling him. He can’t watch Q die. It’d be like Venice all over, but without the bitter complication of betrayal.

Franz scoffs. “Franz Oberhauser died 20 years ago, James. In an avalanche, alongside his father. The man you are talking to now, the man causing all your pain, is Ernst Stavro Blofeld.”

Out of the corner of his eye, James sees a white Persian cat stroll in and sit beside the control panel, looking anachronistically precious in this sterile torture chamber. “Catchy name,” James says, distractedly, because Franz is waiting expectantly, as if this is all intended to mean something, and James’ mind feels pulled in a million directions.

“My mother's bloodline,” he says proudly.

“Oh my god, he really _is_ like some less-amusing version of Lord Voldemort. If you’re going to kill me, just fucking do it already and stop talking!” Q’s head is locked in position so he’s hurling these curses somewhere above Franz’s head… not quite at the ceiling.

“Oh, I’m not going to kill you, Mr. Crisium. I’m just going to take away what makes you _you_. Starting with perhaps the least important part. Starting with James. In fact, once you no longer recognize him, you may feel amenable to joining my ranks. I may opt _not_ to destroy you after all, if I can tame you enough.  Now,” Franz pauses to make some selections on the control panel, “I’d say it won’t hurt, but I think you and I are beyond our little fictions, aren’t we?”

He taps the screen of the control panel, and the machinery behind Q’s head whirs to life, first softly, as the probe is positioned, and then violently as the drill starts in earnest. Bond thinks it might be the most horrifying sound he’s ever heard.

Then Q screams.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG so much thanks to Ducky and Midrashic for their help with this. I've been in the mountains and away from the internet, so sorry that responses came late this week (as well as the chapter). I only have the next one partially written, so it may be slightly delayed as well, but we'll see. I *think* there are only two more, but those of you who have followed my WIPs before know what famous last words those might be. Fixing a few more of my pet peeves from SPECTRE in this chapter, so sorry for the... I won't say medical accuracy, but let's just call it a nudge toward realism compared to canon... One cannot have a drill to the brain without consequences...
> 
> Also, thanks to all of you who have commented, and for those of you who wrote about the cat...I listened.

**Cognitive Threshold Theory** _noun._ \ˈkäɡnədiv, ˈthresh-hōld, ˈTHirē\

1: the theory that our human cognitive ability has thresholds, from the conscious level to a not-as-conscious level, which varies over time depending on stimulus and internal neurobiological processes

 

Q screams and screams and screams. James feels an uncharacteristic rush of nausea, and the entire room is rapt. Which means that for a moment, attention is off him; he quickly sets the _loud_ alarm on his watch, knowing it won’t detonate until the sensor is clear of his skin for several seconds.

The armed guards have moved back and lowered their weapons, eyes on Q in fascinated horror. And then with the flick of Franz’s fingers on the control panel, everything abruptly stops, the last note of Q’s cry hanging in the frozen silence. They are all utterly still until the cat walks over to Q and jumps on his lap. James isn’t sure whether to ascribe villainous feline gloating or a quiet offer of comfort to the inscrutable animal.

Franz looks smug, Madeleine horrified. James can’t imagine the expression that must be on his own face as he moves toward Q in the deafening silence of the aftermath. Tears stream down Q’s face and his lips move as James draws near, muttering something almost silently to himself: “the key, the crater is the key, he knows the truth, the crater is the key.”

It sounds like madness. Fury builds within James.

“Does he recognize you? Are those blue eyes as memorable as you like to think?” Oberhauser taunts.

He glances back at Franz just before entering Q’s line of sight and realizes that Madeleine has followed him. Has been allowed to follow him… whether out of professional or personal curiosity, James doesn’t know. Nor does he care at the moment. Q’s eyes are searching, unfocused, thoughts turned inward — until James steps up to his side.

It takes longer than it should. Longer than the quick, flashing green James associates with the man, but Q’s eyes _do_ focus on him. If they don’t light up, they do cling to him like he’s a life preserver.

Q licks his lips as James leans closer. “They’re my favorite shade,” he says weakly.

“Q?”

He takes a steadying breath, closing his eyes for just a moment before meeting James’ gaze evenly. “My favorite shade of blue,” he clarifies. “I’d recognize your eyes anywhere, James.”

Relief almost weakens James’ knees. Almost.

“Let’s not do that again, shall we?” Q adds with a wince.

“No,” James agrees, quietly. “Let’s get you out. I’ve set the watch.”

“The panel?”

James nods, hoping that destroying the control panel will unlock the restraints rather than hold them in their locked position. It’s their best bet though. Franz is there, and all the guards are nearby.

“Well?” Oberhauser asks. “Did he say something?”

“ _Tempus fugit_ ,” Q whispers. James grins.

“What?” Franz demands. “I can't hear, James.”

“He said, ‘doesn't time fly?’” And with that, James tosses his watch.

The explosion is impressive. Enough to disable the control panel and send Oberhauser and his goons to the floor.

Q’s restraints snap open.

James hastens to remove the band from around Q’s head, getting it clear as Madeleine works the devices at his ankles. He tries to dislodge the cat, but it’s dug its claws into Q’s suit.

Q twists his wrists free from their restraints, but loses his balance as he attempts to sit up, grasping the cat as he rights himself. His coordination is off. James supports him by the back of his neck as he tries again, and realizes it’s wet.

“James, watch o—” Q starts.

A gunshot rings out, and James turns to find Oberhauser, his face mangled by the explosion, teetering and falling backward with a bullet wound in his forehead. Definitely dead. Madeleine is standing in firing stance at the foot of the chair, holding what looks like Q’s Beretta in her right hand and clutching the photo James gave her in her left. She turns and helps James get Q up off the chair.

“Tell me you have a plan to leave this place,” she says.

“We have a plan to destroy it. As for leaving… we’ll make something up.”

“Do it quickly.”

James nods grimly. “Q, can you walk? We need to leave.”

“He’s losing cerebrospinal fluid. Do you honestly think he’ll be able to just stand and dash out of here on his own?” Madeleine asks incredulously.

Q gets to his feet and immediately collapses into Bond.

“Right. Q, drop the cat. If I carry you, can you use your app?”

He doesn’t wait for a response, scooping Q up and heading for the door. With the cat, because of course, Q continues to cling to it. “Grab one of those machine guns, Dr. Swann. Keep us covered,” he calls over his shoulder, deciding that killing Oberhauser is enough to put her squarely on their team.

He moves to the far door. Not the one they entered through leading to the crowded ops center, but the one he hopes leads outdoors. He’s easing it open as Madeleine crouches beside him, holding the automatic rifle awkwardly against her shoulder.

“So. The plan for destroying this place?”

“Q?” James asks, scanning the perimeter for a way out that’s faster than a 1948 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith. Q struggles to cradle the cat while wiping blood from his watch, body tense with the effort of mustering the sort of fine motor coordination he usually manages in his sleep.

“Do you need help, Q?” James asks, concern growing that Q may really not be alright.

“No,” Q states, finally easing back into James’ arms and murmuring “done” as Bond notices a helicopter on the pad across the courtyard.

James waits for what he anticipates will be terrible, glorious destruction.

Nothing happens.

 _Damn_.

“We need to get over there,” he says to Madeleine, looking for some type of cover. He’s frankly surprised that no one’s come crashing through the other door yet to investigate the explosion.

And then as if thinking it made it true, the door behind them bursts open. Madeleine fires a round into the combination of techs and guards trying to enter, igniting an electrical fire in the ops room and starting a mild pandemonium as Bond carries Q outside, using the jamb as cover even as he’s calculating their exposure to anyone approaching from the other buildings.

“Can you fly that?” Madeleine asks, motioning to the helicopter.

“Yes,” Bond grunts. “But we have to get to it first.” And that isn’t looking likely, as guards across the courtyard start to notice the commotion at this end of the facility. They are pinned down and Bond sorely wishes he had his Walther. Though admittedly, operating it while holding a man holding a cat wouldn’t be easy, and he has no intention of putting Q down.

He spies a tank that _could_ hold gas.  Q said they had a large solar array, but maybe it doesn’t cover all their needs. “If you shoot that,” he suggests to Madeleine, ”it might cause—”

The ground rumbles. Then there’s an explosion in the building on the far side of the courtyard, followed by more rumbling, and another explosion.

“Come on!” James cries, making a break across the open stretch to the pad on the opposite side amidst the chaos. Madeleine keeps up with him, despite the heels — she’s not carrying a heavier-than-he-looks Quartermaster, after all — and opens the rear door just as James is ready to jump in.

“Here,” she says, lowering a stretcher that’s folded up on the side of the cargo hull wall. Apparently, they’re stealing the emergency evacuation vehicle. James lays Q out on it as Madeleine fastens the straps to secure Q in place, nudging the cat out of the way. Bond goes to remove it, but it’s smeared with Q’s blood where he’s held it and James can’t bring himself to toss it back into a burning facility if Q wants it.

“Put this on,” he says to Madeleine, handing her a harness from the wall and carabining its safety strap to the anchor in the ceiling. “This might be a rough flight.”

He removes his blood-soaked jacket and jumps into the pilot’s seat to start the ignition sequence, grateful that there are no locks or codes required.

The engine is roaring to life, rotors spinning, when Madeleine calls, “He’s trying to say something. I think…”

James looks over his shoulder to see Madeleine bent over Q, ear near his mouth. “He needs to make a call. To Aria?” she yells.

Oh for fuck’s sake, they don’t have time for this.

“He says it’s urgent!” she calls over the noise.

James sighs, because it probably _is_ urgent, but so is their escape. He pulls two headsets from the copilot’s station and holds them out for Madeleine. “Don these,” he yells, “I’ll see if I can connect my phone to the audio system. The call won’t be clean, though.”

He puts on his own headset and gets them airborne just as the ground near the pad starts to crack and buckle under the force of cascading explosions.

“Nicely done, Q,” he murmurs to himself as he takes one final look at the destruction before turning the copter north.

“Thank you,” comes a shaky response over the comms. James glances back to see that Q is now wearing his headset, and Madeleine is putting hers on. “Call R, if you would.”

“It won’t be secure, Q.”

“Time is of the essence,” Q gasps, words slow and slurred. “She can mop up later.”

James tamps down the fear Q’s shaky voice instills in him. “Understood.” It takes him a moment to link the phone up and briefly debate whether to call the primary line for Q Branch or just ring Eve, since he has a direct line for her and knows she’ll go find R if need be.

Of course, it’s a direct line he _knows_ is being monitored.

He calls Q Branch, and wouldn’t you know, Eve answers.

“We need R,” James interrupts as soon as he recognizes her voice, before she’s gotten a full greeting out.

“She’s busy. Q sent her—”

“Q has more information for her. Time-sensitive information.”

Eve pauses not even half a second. “I’m moving to her. Where are you?”

“Exiting the explosion of Oberhauser’s surveillance center and server array in Morocco. Now in a borrowed helicopter heading northwest. You may have seen—”

“We just caught that explosion on satellite. I wondered if it was your work.”

“Q’s, actually.”

“Impressive. I’m with R. Switching you to speaker.”

“R here,” comes the harried voice of the number two boffin.

Q immediately starts coughing.

“R, this is Bond. I have Q on the line, as well as a stray. He’s… he’s weak.” He hates saying it, but he needs her concentrating.

“Shut it!” she calls to the room. “I’m here, Q. What have you got?”

“Nine Eyes?” he asks.

“I received the instructions on the drive you sent Miss Moneypenny, but we’re stuck. Your insights got us through three layers of encryption, we got through another on our own, but now we’ve hit a snag. There’s a—”

“Key,” Q’s wheezy voice interrupts. “The crater is the key. Oberhauser knew he wove stories… told lies to hide truths. The truth is the key. The crater.”

It sounds like the same madness Bond heard when the drill stopped, but R is patient.

“The crater?” she asks.

“Eleven letters. G-a-r-a-m-e-d-o-u-a-r.  It’s two words,” Q coughs again. “There may be a space or underscore after Gara.”

“Let me check,” she answers, all business. A moment later, “That’s it! No space, but each new word capitalized. We’re in, and we can start installing the blocks to keep it from going live.”

“Tell our allies,” Q orders. His voice is growing softer.

“We will, Q,” Eve answers. “We’ll get the word out to everyone. It looks like you took care of their main facility.”

“ _A_ main facility,” Q corrects. “We’ll need to… to…”

“As soon as this crisis is over we’ll start the search for other repositories,” Eve says, her voice now worried. “How far out are you, James?”

“At least four hours, and that’s if the petrol holds that long. We may have to transfer in Paris or somewhere. I didn’t have time to submit a flight plan.”

“Q won’t make it that long,” Madeleine cuts in. James looks over his shoulder to see her leaning over Q with the med kit open, fresh gauze in her hand.

“Who’s that?” Eve asks.

“One of the strays,” James offers distractedly. “Eve Moneypenny, Dr. Madeleine Swann.”

“Charmed,” Eve says when it’s clear no more information will be forthcoming. “What happened to Q?”

“Long story—”

“He has a brain injury,” Madeleine cuts in. “He’s losing cerebrospinal fluid and blood and he needs surgery. If we try to fly to London, he’ll be dead when we get there.”

“For a psychologist... I find your bedside... manner… somewhat lacking,” Q complains.

“He hasn’t lost his snark, at least. I’m open to suggestions, Dr. Swann,” James says.

“There’s a neurosurgeon in Seville. Aliásar Redondo. He’s probably fully scheduled, but he might take a transfer patient from me. High priority.”

“We’re on it,” Eve says, then more distant, addressing someone in the room. “You — look it up. R-e-d— yes that’s right... got it? Damn, Redondo is a common name…”

“Eve, we need a flight path cleared,” James adds. “And a place to land.”

“He’s normally at the _Hospital Universitario Virgen del Rocío_ ,” Madeleine interjects. “There’s a landing pad on the roof. I used to work there as well,” she offers as explanation.

“Okay, I have one Minion on that and another clearing your flight path. Anything else?”

“TickTock,” Q says, apropos of nothing. But it’s not, apparently.

“What about him?” Eve asks. “He delivered your package to me at dawn. Good thing you gave him my order the second time we met at Grounded for Life. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have believed he was from you. Security had him up against a wall when I came down.”

A wet laugh comes across the comms. “Owe him scotch for that… Oberhauser… surveilled the building. Recorded him leaving... flipping off CCTV.”

“You think he’s in danger?” Eve asks.

“Yes,” Q answers simply. “And I put him there.”

“Do you have an address?”

But Q is coughing again and can’t answer.

“I have it,” Bond interrupts, reciting the address on the package he delivered to FedEx.

“We’ll bring him in, Q, until this blows over,” she assures him. “We’re all indebted.”

They wait for Q to catch his breath. “Ta, Eve.”

There’s a pause, and James thinks he hears Eve’s breath waver. She clears her throat. “Your path to Seville is clear. Dr. Swann, I’m patching in Dr. Redondo.”

Static clears and a new voice comes on. “Maddie?”

“Aliásar!”

“Why is British Intelligence calling me at work? Are you in trouble?”

“Not anymore, but I need a favor. I have someone with head trauma and he needs immediate attention.”

“Where are you?”

“Flying over the Strait of Gibraltar,” Bond cuts in. “We can be there in 30 minutes.”

“What… Ah, what is the trauma?”

Madeleine takes a steadying breath. “A… a _drill_ to the posterior lobe of the cerebellum. As far as I can tell.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I know, it’s crazy.”

“Who _did_ that?”

“Focus, Doctor!” Bond interrupts.

“Aliásar, I don’t think it was sterile.”

He curses in Spanish under his breath. “Symptoms? Fine motor coordination?”

“Compromised,” Q says quietly. “Gross motor coordination as well. I can’t walk.”

“You… you are the patient, sir?” Dr. Redondo asks.

“Unfortunately for me,” Q replies.

There’re muffled cries in Spanish.

“I’m having a room prepped, Maddie. How long ago?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Are his symptoms growing worse?”

“Yes,” Q answers.

“How much blood?” he asks.

“I… I can’t estimate,” Madeleine admits. “It’s soaked into things. A fair amount.”

“Don’t apply pressure to the wound unless you think he’s losing enough to drop his blood pressure,” Dr. Redondo instructs. “The _dura mater_ is riddled with blood vessels and will bleed a lot, but it’s better that it not build up inside the skull and increase pressure around the brain. Do you have saline?”

Madeleine checks the med kit. “No.”

A brief pause. “Fly quickly, British Intelligence. I’ll be ready for surgery when you arrive.”

“Thank you, Aliásar.”

“ _De nada, mi amor_. We’ll talk after.”

There’s a click, and he’s gone.

“We’ve cleared your flight path, James,” Eve announces. “Is it safe to send to this number?”

“Q made this phone. It’s safe. I can’t vouch for your end.”

“R has gotten a handle on things here, we think. I’m also scrambling agents to help guard Q, but once I get beyond the people I know, it’s hard to suss who’s been placed by C or—”

“I’m not leaving him, Eve.”

There’s a brief pause. “Understood. Are _you_ injured?”

James looks down at the blood on his shirt. None of it is his. “Negative. Where’s M?”

“Handling things. I’ll have him call you at this number when he can. I need to go help R. Q? I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

“Not… not if I see you first, Moneypants.”

Eve sniffs and clears her throat. “You never see me coming, love. That’s part of my charm.”

Q huffs a wet laugh. “On the other side, then.”

“Fly fast, James,” she commands as a signoff.

“Like the wind,” he agrees.

The next twenty-five minutes are harrowing. As soon as they make Spanish airspace, a barrage of instructions come over the radio, first from flight control and then from emergency dispatch. His Spanish is good, but Madeleine is better at deciphering the rapid, staticky instructions. Soon he can see the roof of _Hospital Universitario Virgen del Rocío_ and the team awaiting them there. As soon as the copter is on the pad, medics rush forward with a mobile stretcher, saline drip and he’s not sure what else. They are inside and shouting instructions to each other, tossing Q’s headset aside, and have Q transferred and hooked up and _out_ before Bond has even managed to completely shut the engine down.

Now he stands beside the copter in the wake of Q’s rushed exit, realizing he hasn’t heard the boffin’s voice for a while. He doesn’t actually know if Q is still conscious, but he wishes he could have said something before the man was whisked away. Made eye contact. Tried somehow to tell Q that… that…

He has no idea what the last thing was he said to Q, but it hits him that it might be the last thing he _ever_ gets to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you interested in the real story of the crater in Morocco, here are a few links:  
> http://www.trueanomalies.com/the-meteorite-crater-that-wasnt/  
> https://www.geocaching.com/geocache/GC7GAVM_the-fossils-of-morocco-in-the-movie-star-location?guid=48f24ddc-4233-40ea-b317-7bba580331e5


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, with the glowing praise and love for my amazing betas, Midrashic and Ducky. Y'all rock! Seriously, Midrashic stops me from making mistakes in canon every chapter, and Ducky is a steady, supportive voice and idea-bouncer-offer. I love them both, and this story would be so much weaker without them. https://ato-the-bean.tumblr.com/post/184192496470/honestly-beta-readers-are-a-gift-to-fandom-mine.
> 
> Sorry this is a bit late. I've caught up with what I had pre-written, but it's only a day or two later than usual. I haven't even started the next one, and it will be the last, and I'll need to wrap it up in a pretty bow, so please don't expect it within a week. I'm going to give myself two so I can get it right...if it all flows out at once and looks good, you might get it early, but I also have RL stuff next weekend, so...
> 
> This chapter makes use of the second part of the 2-part art prompt from @pettikotes (remember, this started as a 00q Reverse Big Bang waaaay back in January). It is GORGEOUS. I'm so grateful, again, to pettikotes and the 00qRBB moderator for the opportunity to write for it. I'm anticipating one more chapter to wrap things up...

**Threshold of Action Potential** _noun._ \ˈthresh-hōld, əv, ˈakSH(ə)n, pəˈten(t)SHəl\

1: in neuroscience, the **threshold of action potential** is the critical level to which a neuron membrane potential must be depolarized to initiate an action potential to send signals along the neuron and originate communication with neighboring neurons in a network. Threshold potentials are necessary to regulate and propagate signaling in both the central nervous system and the peripheral nervous system.

 

The rotors of the helicopter are still spinning slowly as James stands on the roof of a hospital in Seville, staring at the door that just slammed shut behind Q’s medical team. He’s not sure what to do, now that Q’s fate is out of his hands. Not sure where he should go now that the mad rush is over. Standing on a rooftop seems untenable, but rushing after Q toward the OR… that’s not his place either.

Madeleine comes up beside him and slips something into his hand. Q’s Beretta.

He quickly checks the safety is on and puts it into his pocket, feeling moderately more comfortable. Like it’s a damned security blanket.

“You think they'll let me bring this into a hospital?” he asks.

“You’re bodyguard to a member of British Intelligence. I daresay your Eve has arranged it all.”

“She’s not my Eve.”

“No,” Madeleine agrees, giving him an odd look. “I suppose she isn’t. Come on.”

She slips her hand through the crook of his arm and leads him to the stairs, then down to the 8th floor, to the entrance of a far too cheerfully decorated surgical waiting room. Bond doesn’t even want to go inside. A family already sits, anxious eyes glancing through the window at James’ shirt.

Madeleine punches a code on a keypad for a nearby closet and retrieves two sets of scrubs. “They never change the codes,” she explains. “There’s a men’s room through there. You can wash up and change into these so you don’t frighten the other families. I’ll do the same and meet you back here.”

He is a right mess, he realizes as he examines himself in the mirror. He bins the shirt and vest, using paper towels to wash the blood from his skin before donning the scrub shirt. His trousers are clean enough to avoid the indignity of drawstring slacks.

When he reenters the hall, Madeleine is there, somehow making a full set of blue surgical scrubs look chic, speaking with a doctor. They turn toward him as Bond approaches.

“Your friend is in good hands, Mr. Bond,” the doctor says. “But it will be a number of hours before we know anything. Maddie knows her way around if you need refreshments. I have a private waiting room available, if you’ll follow me.”

And so Bond finds himself sitting alone in a small room with a window looking over old Seville, with far too much time on his hands, and too few distractions. Madeleine comes in a moment later and silently hands him a cup of coffee. He’s grateful for her presence, and even more for her silence. The coffee is very bad, but he’s grateful for that, too.

They’ve sat together for twenty minutes, each lost in their own thoughts, when a young man dressed like a medical tech enters carrying a small crate.

“Señor Bond?”

“Yes?” He stands.

“You are Señor Crisium’s next of kin?”

A cold dread crawls up Bond’s spine. “I’m… yes. Okay.” He nods.

“I have the things we removed from him when we prepped him for surgery and some things from the helicopter… including a _cat_ , which technically is not meant to be allowed, but considering there’s no one else to take it until he’s out of surgery…”

Bond breathes a sigh of relief and accepts the crate, which contains large zippered bags of bloody clothes, a few odd items, and a slightly blood-smeared white Persian cat with one pale green eye and one pale blue eye. He fishes through the clothes for his own jacket and pulls the picture of M from the pocket. Then he retrieves Q’s watch, the ankle holster that Q had apparently been wearing — and the cat — and offers the crate back to the technician.

“You can burn the rest of that,” he says, not wanting to see the clothes Franz bought either of them ever again.

“Are they toxic?” the tech asks.

“Only emotionally,” Bond answers, shaking his head. “Any word on the patient?”

The boy shrugs. “He’s prepped and under, and Dr. Redondo’s getting started. I think it will be a while before we hear anything, but I’ll be running information back and forth from the OR. Do you know if he has any medical allergies? He answered no, but he also seemed a bit confused, and we’re probably going to want to put him on several antibiotics.”

James feels relief that Q was at least conscious when they whisked him away. “Not that I’m aware of,” he says, pulling out his phone. “But I’ll check.”

He taps out a quick text to Eve, who promptly responds in the negative, and the tech runs that information back to the doctor.

Which leaves him alone again. Well, with Madeleine, but she’s an unobtrusive presence, now wandering over to the window and deep in her own thoughts. He fastens the holster to his ankle and transfers the Beretta, still surprised he’s been allowed to keep it, and that Franz apparently never even _searched_ Q. Underestimated him to the very end. And Madeleine, it would seem. It took all three of them to take him down and get out. And the rest of MI6 to deal with Nine Eyes, and make sure they’ll have a recognizable home to come back to. This mission has proven to be an unusually “team” effort compared to most of his operations. And Q’s been at the center of all of it.

But now, there’s nothing for James to _do_. It’s almost intolerable, after the intense activity of the last day. Last week, even. He’s used to the slow parts of spy work. The stakeouts. The quiet watching. But that’s still waiting with _engagement_. It requires focus and discipline. This feels more like awaiting a verdict. He’s done everything in his power. Now he can only be patient, rely on the power of others, and wait for the outcome.

It’s not a strong suit of his… patience. Especially when every moment of inactivity brings to memory some detail he ignored in the moment. Q’s hair wrapped around the drill bit, torn by the root from his scalp. Blood soaking the white leather of the chair. Q’s speech, generally so delightfully quick and snarky, slowing and slurring even as he continued to do his job. They are cut from the same cloth in that regard. The same cloth as M-the-former, the Iron Maiden issuing imperatives from the grave. He suspects Q has similarly left breadcrumbs not only on the drive they sent to Eve but throughout the systems in Q Branch, so his successor would have a running start. Not that he’s ready to consider Q’s successor...

Q was still issuing instructions and information, even as his voice failed. It makes James both proud and desperate to know what’s happening to him. Desperate to know if Q will make it. If James will ever again hear his posh voice over the comms. Ever again feel his lean muscular body, heavy with sleep. Ever be wakened by Q’s curls tickling his nose…

He wishes they’d gotten their date.

He feels desperate to have something to blow up if Q doesn’t make it.

“I’m rather cross with you,” he says out of the blue, startling Madeleine out of her reverie by the window.

“Me? Why?”

“If Q doesn’t make it, I’ll feel compelled to hunt Franz down and put a bullet between his eyes. But the task is done.”

She huffs a humorless laugh and looks out the window. “You seemed busy, and I was closer to the gun. Mr. Blofeld has given me cause to kill him, too. Beyond what he did to my father. I’ve run my whole life because of him. Always having to disappear just as real connections were forged. I may not have as much reason as you,” she says, glancing back at him, “but I also needed to know he was gone. He was such a… a…”

“Psychopathic prick?” James suggests.

Madeleine huffs a startled laugh, which quickly turns to tears.

“Hey… hey, I’m sorry.” He approaches her, realizing she’s shaking. “I shouldn’t joke. It’s a—”

“Defense mechanism to keep the horrors in your life at arm’s length. Yes, I’m aware, Mr. Bond. I _am_ a psychologist.”

But she won’t stop shaking, and James tentatively reaches out to her, wraps an arm around her shoulder as she hides her face in her hands. “Shhhhh. You’re okay,” he says, pulling her against his chest and letting her cry on his shoulder. “You’re okay. Was that the first time you’ve…”

She shakes her head, trying to steady her breathing. “Once before, a long time ago, defending my father. I still don’t like it.”

“It’s okay. You know you did the right thing. That bastard was spiteful enough he probably would have survived the explosion and continued to haunt us for years. We’re both rid of him, thanks to you.”

“Thanks to your watch and Q’s gun…” she protests against his chest.

“Actually, the watch was Q’s invention, too. I just deployed it.”

She whimpers another laugh.

“What?” James asks.

“I never took you for the modest type,” she replies, stepping back and wiping her eyes. “I didn’t think I’d leave that place alive. I half expected to be in the chair, myself.”

“It should have been me,” James counters. “Franz built it for me.” He’s not sure that’s true, but it _feels_ true. And he hates that Q was made to take his place, in danger again, because of James. Fighting for his life because he followed James. He swears he will hear Q’s scream until the day he dies. If Q doesn’t make it or loses his ability to be... _Q_... James isn’t sure how he’ll live with it.

She steps forward and puts a hand on James’ arm. “Aliásar is the best I know. If anyone can get Q through this, it’s him.”

James nods, grateful for the reassurance but not daring to believe it. “You have a history.”

It’s not a question, but Madeleine wipes her eyes again and nods. “One that was interrupted… it’s never been safe for me to stay in one place too long.”

He wonders, idly, how many lives Franz has ruined over the years. James had a special place in Franz’s recreational destruction, but he was clearly not the only one affected. James, at least, found a sort of home in his work. And now that he and Q are… whatever they are… well, time will tell. If he’s lucky. If they got Q to help in time. “Maybe that can change, now.”

“Maybe,” she agrees, arms wrapped around herself protectively. She turns toward the window again, needing the illusion of solitude to pull herself together. He grants it, turning back to the other side of the room and sitting, mind immediately checking the time and wondering why they haven’t heard more from the OR… and then chastising himself, because it’s only been a half hour, and he’s sure this will be a lengthy surgery. He’s sure the time will crawl, and he has all the patience of a gun.

The drill hadn’t been sterile, Madeleine had said. So in addition to direct damage, they’re going to be battling… dirt, infection, he’s not even sure what. The doctors are going to try, the cocktail of antibiotics and rush to surgery show that. But as far as Franz was concerned, Q wasn’t meant to survive… or he was only meant to survive long enough to cause James pain through his lack of recognition. An immediate pain Franz could gloat over, followed by the permanent pain of loss. Well, Q had denied Franz once… more than once, considering all he’d done to thwart Franz’s work. James just had to believe that Q would deny Franz again.

He wishes he’d said something. This morning when Q was naked in his arms — _god_ was that really only this morning? Wishes he’d told Q he lo—

Ridiculous thought. He pushes it away.

The cat is out of the crate and gingerly exploring the space, approaching James with a tentative look.

“The other stray,” James mutters to himself, reaching down to lift the animal onto his lap. “What are you called?” He reads the tag on its collar. Then reads it again. “Well, I’m definitely not calling you that.”

“What’s her name?” Madeleine asks from across the room.

“Apparently ‘Cherysh’... with a ‘Y’,” James says disdainfully.

Madeleine suppresses a smile. “Oh dear.” She approaches, allowing the cat to sniff her and then scratching its ears. “What are you thinking of naming her?”

“Oh, no. This is _Q’s_ stray. If he wants to keep it, he can rename it. Rumor has it, his other cats are named for famous mathematicians or something.” If Q can’t name it… well, he’s not ready to think about that, but in that case, he’s sure this little stowaway will do fine on the streets of Seville.

“Mathematicians, eh?”

“Or coders? All I know are rumors. They could be named Hansel and Gretel for all I really know.” James sighs, suddenly sad that he doesn’t know this about Q. He knows so many things, so many much-more-intimate things. But he never thought to ask about the cats, which he _knows_ are important to Q.

Madeleine is watching him carefully, brows furrowed, and he wonders idly what he just gave away. Damned psychologists, and him with his guard down. Her face clears in a moment. “I’ll just go see if I can find something to clean up her fur,” she says. “Do you want more coffee?”

James glances at the cold dregs left in the paper cup by the chairs, stomach churning. “No, thank you.”

The room is quiet again, after she leaves. Too quiet. Quiet enough that small sounds seem annoyingly loud. The air conditioning. The rumble of traffic outside. His own bloody thoughts… the soft purr of a cat that is currently shedding long white hairs over his navy trousers.

“You’re going to be a bloody nuisance, aren’t you?” But he finds himself petting the unflappable creature, finding an odd sort of comfort in her warm presence and a mild satisfaction in carrying out what he perceives as Q’s last request of him before... losing contact.

“You’re going to ruin my reputation,” he grumbles as she bumps his hand with her head, demanding his attention.

Thankfully, before anyone can see him in this compromised state, his phone rings.

“M,” he greets.

 

* * *

 

It takes eight hours for Q to clear surgery and for an exhausted Aliásar to come in and give them the news that Q has survived and the prognosis is… _fair_. There are complications. An aneurysm and pressure on the brain that had to be relieved, which was done as quickly as possible. It all seems vaguely unreal. Things that happen in movies, but not in real life.

This is real, though. Q is fighting for his life. Quietly, in a small bed in a small room in a foreign land, with only Bond bearing witness.

It takes another two hours for M to bully the Spaniards into putting Q in a larger room that can fit a bed for James. The additional MI6 guards they allow immediately. The cat takes a bit more persuasion, as well as a signature on a form that essentially says _we told you this was a terrible idea, if something bad happens it’s not our fault._

It takes 15 hours for Bond to think up _exactly_ what he should have told Q and another five hours of wallowing quietly in regret before he’s _desperate_ for a drink. Sadly, his scotch got blown up with everything else, and the hospital cafeteria doesn’t stock that particular medicinal.

Just as well. He wants to be sober when Q wakes up.

It takes 27 hours for Dr. Redondo to come in to share the results of Q’s post-surgery CAT scans, glucose-metabolism scans, and responsivity tests. Bond is perfectly still as he receives the information, feeling Damocles’ sword dangling above him. When the doctor finishes, James just blinks.

“I don’t know what this means,” he admits.

Aliásar smiles. “The glucose test is 94% predictive. Mr. Crisium should wake up within a week. And the CAT scans show the damage from the swelling and aneurysm was much less than we feared. Between that and the nerve-response tests, I have great optimism. This is the best news we could have hoped for.”

James’ knees nearly buckle. After he thanks the doctor and passes the word onto M, he makes use of the bed and sleeps for the first time since arriving.

It takes 42 hours for Q’s brain patterns to begin to emerge from the coma that had been induced for his surgery. By then James has been reduced to wearing full sets of cat-hair covered green scrubs and has warned the junior MI6 agents stationed outside Q’s door that if they tell anyone, he’ll shoot them without remorse.

It takes 53 hours for Alec to show up with a suitcase containing several changes of clothes (mostly jeans and cashmere jumpers... the hospital is cold), a decent razor (thank _god_ ), and a fifth of scotch. He’s on his way to Algiers, having already destroyed a warehouse outside Orléans. R is apparently chasing every lead on Q’s hard drive, and running the Double-ohs ragged. Alec doesn’t ask why James isn’t participating. He just looks at Q’s bandaged head and the white cat in James’ arms, and gives him an odd, sympathetic look.  He mutters, “Took you long enough,” and leaves.

It’s a full 82 hours later that James jolts awake from his seat by Q’s bed (the-cat-formerly-known-as-Cherysh hissing and scampering off his lap) to the sound of Q thrashing in the bed.

“Q! Q, you’re alright. You’re safe.” James stands and gets in Q’s line of sight.

Q freezes, his eyes wide and panicked until they find James. Then they cling to him, just like they did after the drill. It sends a shiver down his spine.

“James?”

“I’m here.” He reaches out to smooth Q’s fringe, peeking out from beneath the bandage. “Do you want your glasses?”

“Please.”

James finds them on the small tray beside the bed and settles them awkwardly on Q’s face, stretching the hinges around the bandages.

Q sighs in relief when the world comes into focus. “Where are we?”

“A hospital in Seville. Do you remember our escape? The helicopter?”

“I… I don’t know. Maybe. We talked to R?” Q pulls at the straps securing his wrist to the bars of the bed. “Why am I…” he pulls again.

“It’s only been the last day. You kept pulling out your I.V. If you promise to leave it alone, I’ll undo the straps.”

Q nods, and visibly relaxes when James frees his hands, pulling his arms back to his chest, rubbing his wrist.

“Better?”

Q breathes out a long sigh. “Sorry. I think I may be averse to having my wrists restrained, now.  So much for my ‘bondage’ phase.”

“You had a bondage phase and I missed it?” James asks fondly, stroking Q’s fringe again.

Q huffs a laugh. “No, not really.”

“You don’t seem the type,” James agrees. “Not that I’d judge.”

Q’s laugh quickly turns to a cough. James helps him sip some water through a straw and then eases him back onto the pillow.

“So,” Q says as his breathing steadies. He’s reached up with one hand to explore the bandage wrapped around his head. “Brain surgery?”

“Aye, brain surgery.”

Q holds his hands in front of him, looking at both sides, opening and closing his fists. “Successful?”

“So it would seem.” James smiles. Q continues testing his fingers, deliberately touching each to his thumb. “Your doctors will have to tell you most of it, but from what I’ve heard, the drill primarily affected areas controlling your hands. But the damage doesn’t look too bad,” he says, nodding to Q’s finger exercises. “You may need a bit of PT to get your typing up to speed, but the basics are still there.”

Q seems relieved. “And my legs?” he asks, looking down the length of his blanket covered body.

“They didn’t say anything about your legs. Didn’t seem to think they were a problem,” James answers.

“But… I couldn’t walk. You… you carried me.”

James shrugs. “You had some immediate swelling in your brain. And shock. That alone might explain it.”

Q looks doubtful.

“Can you feel this?” James places his hand on Q’s thigh, causing Q’s breath to hitch.

“I… Yes.”

James nods. “If you have mobility issues, I have no doubt that Q Branch would outfit you with a chair to rival Professor X’s. But I don’t think it will come to that.”

Q wriggles his toes, his muscles moving under James’ hand. “So… I can still be Q?”

James grins.  “I know several people who are depending on it. Of course, you need to recover, and the doctors will give you more information than I’ve been privy to… there may be something I’m unaware of.”

“A Quartermaster needs to be mobile,” Q says hesitantly.

“Your predecessors weren’t running any marathons, Q. And you’ve modernized the Branch such that you have more information at your fingertips than they ever had. If you were hoping to spin this into an early retirement, I suspect M will be displeased.”

Q huffs a small laugh and relaxes more into the pillow. He’s already looking tired from all this exertion. He’s not ready to rest yet, though. “And Nine Eyes?”

“Was prevented from going live, and high officials in several countries are now in custody, including our ex-C, as it turns out. M was rather chuffed to carry out his arrest.” James is sure he looks _very_ pleased by this, judging from Q’s wry smile. “R has the Double-ohs running across the globe taking out the leads she found on your hard drive.”

“And you’ve somehow avoided all that?”

James feels caught out. He has no idea if Q was as affected by what happened between them as he was, but suddenly all the words he’d rehearsed while Q was unconscious seem horribly inappropriate.

“I… I’m guarding the Quartermaster,” he says awkwardly.

He’s a coward and a fool, because Q sees through him immediately.

“This whole time? Actually, how long has it been?” Q asks, looking around the room, as if the answer were there.

James looks at his watch. “Eighty-two hours… sorry. Three-and-a-half days. Give or take.”

“Give or take?” Q asks, an eyebrow disappearing beneath the bandage above his brow.

James shrugs. He’s giving so much away, and he _wants_ to be, but he feels strange. Exposed.

“What time is it?”

“Three in the morning,” James answers. “Probably the only reason we haven’t been interrupted. They have a small overnight staff.”

Q looks around the room, spying the spare bed, and then assessing Bond’s rumpled clothes. “But you weren’t sleeping in the bed.” It’s not a question.

“You’ve been moving, I knew you’d be coming out of it soon. I didn’t want to be too far away.”

Q’s expression softens, and he makes an aborted motion towards James’ hand. “Thank you.” He’s not quite looking at James now. “Dr. Swann…”

“What about her?”

“I was wrong about her,” Q says, looking up at James with an oddly hesitant expression.

“You were,” he nods, “and good thing or we wouldn’t have made it out. You were right about so many things, I’m glad my instincts are still good for something.”

James can’t quite interpret the look on Q’s face. It’s disappointment, he thinks, but it’s unreasonable for Q to expect to always be right.

“She’s lovely,” Q says, a bit grudgingly.

“She is,” James concedes. “And she saved your life by directing us here and getting you in to Dr. Redondo, and for that, I will always be grateful and consider her a _friend_.” If Q’s fishing for information, he wants to be very clear on this point. “And I don’t think Dr. Redondo is particularly upset by the turn of events, either.”

“Oh.” James watches on as Q processes that bit of information. “Still, any reduction in dexterity or mobility is bound to affect more than my work. And… and I would understa—”

“Are you trying to let me down easy, Q?” James asks, realizing that if they are both going to be idiots, this might slip through his fingers.

“Uh… no. I just…” he motions at his legs.

James pulls his hand back from Q’s thigh, immediately missing the warm proof of life. “I don’t know how much you remember about the train—”

“I remember everything. Everything through the first part of the helicopter.”

“Good,” James says, though it might be better if Q forgot some of what happened to him. “I wouldn’t want you to forget that.” All the things he wanted to say while Q was unconscious come rushing back. None of it feels right. But Q’s expression is open and wistful and a little heartbreaking.

James takes his hand.

“Soon, the doctors are going to realize you’re awake and come in here to run EEGs and blood tests and god knows what else. And as soon as he knows you’re awake, M will call and I won’t be able to put him off anymore. I’ll have to go out to chase your leads. And I don’t know how long it will be before I return. But when I do. When I do…” He squeezes Q’s hand.

 

“Okay,” Q says, an almost shy smile on his lips. “Yeah. Good.”

The nurse bursts in at that moment, but James can’t stop smiling at Q.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as ever to Ducky and Midrashic for the beta help. This has grown on me again, so this is not the last chapter. I'm still thinking the next one will be, but I've learned not to make promises. And thanks to all of you who commented on the last. So lovely...

**Wait Time Threshold** noun. \wāt, tīm, ˈthresh-hōld\

1: The period of time someone is willing to wait before taking an action or having an impact on customer satisfaction. See also Phone Tree Management and Emergency Room Procedures.

 

Q becomes _very_ popular.

First, the room is inundated with medical professionals checking his eyes, pulse, asking him questions. Bond leans against the wall where Q’s searching eyes can find him — and they do search — in between questions. Doctors are notified. Tests are ordered.

“I’ll be here when you get back,” James assures as Q’s bed is wheeled from the room on the way to the MRI.

James isn’t going to be able to sleep anymore. He taps out quick texts to M and Eve, knowing that they probably won’t be seen for an hour or two still, cleans the litter box, and grabs a shower. By the time he’s dressed, M is calling.

A half hour later, Q is back and looks completely exhausted. James helps him drink some water. As Q settles back into his pillow he winces. The bandage has been changed. It no longer wraps around his head. A fresh dressing is taped to the back of his skull, leaving exposed the odd boundary between where they’d shaved the back of his head and where his fringe and remaining hair are matted down and flattened by the old pressure bandage. James wants to smooth Q’s fringe back from his eyes, but Q is pushing it back himself before he gets the chance.

“You showered,” Q accuses.

Bond raises his eyebrows. “Should I not have?”

“No. I’m just jealous,” Q complains, combing fingers back through his fringe again, stopping at the shave line. “I wonder why they didn’t shave it all?”

“I expect they were in a hurry,” James offers. When Q concedes the point, he adds, “We can shave the rest now, if you like. Though I’m rather fond of your fringe.”

Q gives him a wry look. “I’ll need a toque in here if I shave it all, chilly as they keep this room. It’s fine. Doubt I’ll be hitting the town anytime soon, anyway.” His eyes close for a moment. “Bloody hell, I’m knackered.”

Q sounds remarkably normal. The weight that’s been on James’ chest for days lightens a bit more. “You should rest.”

“I don’t think I’m going to have much choice,” Q yawns. He fights the pull of sleep, forcing his eyes open again.

“M called,” James adds.

“Hmmm. So you’re off then?”

James can’t quite interpret Q’s tone. “He says I’m needed. And R has everyone spread thin. If I go to Portu—”

“James. It’s fine. Really,” he adds when James looks as if he doesn’t believe him. “You’re the best we’ve got, and I’m sure you _are_ needed. I’m surprised they let you stay as long as you did.”

“I didn’t brook much argument,” James admits, making Q snort.

“I’m grateful to you for staying so I didn’t wake alone, but really, I’ve never been one to require a babysitter, nor do I appreciate having one. We have that in common,” he says with a wry, tired smile. “And we both work where we do for a reason. I have no desire to take that from you, and wouldn’t tolerate you trying to take it from me. So go. Wreak havoc on our enemies. Just... be careful with yourself,” he adds in a way that’s clearly not Quartermasterly.

As much as he hates the idea of leaving Q, James can’t deny he’s itching to wreak a little havoc, as Q had so aptly described it. “Well, I’m leaving you in good hands,” James says, reaching down to scoop up the cat and plopping it on Q’s chest.

“Who’s this?” Q asks, hands immediately going to her, just like they did during the escape.

“Your stray. Don’t you remember rescuing her? You wouldn’t let her go, even when I told you to drop her. Even when we were running for our lives.”

Memory or recognition flickers across Q’s face. “My stray?”

“I’ve just been calling her ‘cat’,” James admits.

Q looks at the tag on the collar and snorts a laugh. “I never took Oberhauser for a fan of electronic music.”

“Pardon?”

Q shakes his head. “On second thought, he probably named her that unironically. I hope you’re good at sharing the spotlight,” he directs at the cat, turning her to his face, “because I have another Lady at home who thinks _she’s_ queen of the castle.”

“She’s been decent company,” James acknowledges with a small smile. “Madeleine took her to a local vet to get her cleaned up and checked out. She doesn’t have a chip, but she now has all her shots and a healthy dislike of white lab coats. And some dry food and a box.” He nods to the corner of the room where the cat supplies are stored.

Q eyes his grey cashmere jumper as James plucks a white cat hair off it.

“I always took you for more of a dog person.”

James shrugs. “I had hunting dogs growing up, but my life isn’t very conducive to having pets. I appreciated her company while I waited for you…”

Q’s face softens. “Well, I’m glad she joined us. Perhaps she’s been looking for a way out for some time and jumped at her chance.”

“Perhaps,” Bond agrees. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he frowns when he sees the message.

“M?” Q asks, closing his eyes against his exhaustion.

“Flight details from R. I need to leave soon to get to the airport. I’d hoped we'd have a bit more time to talk.”

“Well,” Q says, tentatively reaching back to touch his bandage again, “It seems there will be time later. With luck, I’ll be in better shape, and you won’t be in worse.”

James watches Q for a moment. He looks tired and pale, but his voice is strong. He’s lowered his hand and it’s now buried in the cat’s fur, slowly stroking it. James wants to kiss him goodbye… wants to tell him that their time together on this mission meant something to him — something _important_ — but that might best wait for later, too. And Q is smart. Surely he knows. “Later, then,” James agrees, brushing Q’s fringe from his brow.

Bleary eyes open, and the weight of all that’s unsaid hangs between them for a moment. Then Q offers a small smile. “Good luck mopping up the remnants of Spectre, 007. Do try to bring back your equipment.”

James quirks a smile, unable to resist the opening. “My _equipment_ …” James murmurs. “Will await your inspection when I return.”

“Oh god, that was terrible,” Q complains, though he has a pleased smile and rising color in his cheeks. “I’m going back into a coma now to avoid any more suggestive humor.”

“Understood, Quartermaster.” He looks at Q one more time, almost aching to reach out and touch. Offering a small nod instead, he takes his suitcase and leaves.

R keeps him busy for the next week or two, dashing from country to country. The explosion in Morocco left a power vacuum at the top of the organization, and many people from the Rome meeting and beyond are jockeying to take over. Sometimes all MI6 has to do is observe as they take each other out. Other times, -6 agents nudge the players into each other’s path or take them out directly. Then there are the sleeper cells that Franz had ready to disrupt countries not toeing the Spectre line. Those need flushing out, or at least monitoring as they search for new benefactors. James finds a facility full of smuggled arms that are actually too dangerous to destroy in a crowded city. R quietly passes the information along and ensures everything is confiscated safely, even as the organizers slip through their fingers.

It’s definitely a case of two steps forward, one step back. Even with its head removed, Spectre remains full of bright, ruthless people, almost more dangerous now that they haven’t been corralled into a single vision or purpose. James is busy enough and focused enough that his mind can’t wander. If he loses his concentration, he could easily find himself dead. Especially as he charms information from marks and then leaves before bedding them, catching their confused, frustrated looks as he retreats.

It’s only at night, in the quiet of strange hotel rooms while sipping a nightcap of scotch, that his thoughts shift to Q. It’s in those moments that he feels oddly lonely. He got used to the company Q offered on mission. Not just the support, which Q Branch still offers in a satisfactory way. Not just the sex, which he could go find elsewhere if he were inclined.

It’s the understanding he misses. The mischievous looks and exasperated callouts of his bad behavior and little encouragements he didn’t realize he needed or appreciated. It’s the faith Q has in him and the humor he uses to show it. It’s the faith he has in Q to watch his back and in the way Q sees things, both in the mission and in James, that he himself misses. It’s the bedhead in the morning and the way that despite his claims, Q’s not really quite functional until he’s had his first cup of tea. Or at least not very verbal.

James looks out over the skyline of Lisbon late one night feeling Q’s absence, wondering how his recovery is going despite assurances from R that Q’s recovering well and may even be moved back to London soon. He’s just not allowed devices yet and is still sleeping a lot.

James fingers his phone, missing the time when Q was across the room, or even at the other end of a comm line. And as much as he likes R and finds her support on missions welcome, it’s not the same. Really, he just wants to share the view with someone he thinks will appreciate it.

He snaps a picture with his phone and texts it to the number Q used on their mission together — the satellite phone Q built. He’s fairly certain that phone was lost in the explosion in Morocco, but he still feels a bit better. He downs the rest of his scotch and goes to bed.

After Portugal, he’s sent to Turkey, where he loses his Walther, but takes out a server array Spectre is trying to rebuild. R is pleased enough with the outcome that she has Alec detour on his wait to Crimea to replenish Bond’s gear.

They meet in a dark bar in Komotini, Greece, near the Bulgarian border. James pockets the new gun, ammunition and travel documents while Alec goes to the bar to get drinks. They toast silently, clinking together shot glasses of the local spirit, because Alec doesn’t believe in watering down his liquor.

“So,” Alec comments after a moment. “The Quartermaster.”

James freezes. “What about him?”

Alec just raises an eyebrow and leans back in the booth.

James takes a sip of his drink. “I understand he’s been moved to Medical, but he’s not allowed equipment yet, including phones. I haven’t spoken with him since I left Seville.” He’s sent several more texts to a dead phone, but there’s no need to tell Alec that.

“Not what I was referring to, but fine, let’s talk about his medical condition. When I left headquarters, the Minions were working on plans to sneak him a package. I know it involved good tea and pastries, and there were rumblings of electronics. He’s still undergoing a lot of tests, though. I wasn’t allowed to visit.”

James feels a pulse of jealousy that Alec had even gotten close to visiting.

“R’s seen him, though,” Alec continues. “She says he’s getting bored and irritated.”

James chuckles into his glass. “Well, I pity the medical staff, then. A bored Quartermaster is a dangerous thing.”

“And you would know,” Alec adds.

James shakes his head. “We were never bored during our mission.”

“You’re avoiding the topic,” Alec accuses mildly.

James has no idea what to say. He and Q… they left things with a lot of promise but nothing much settled. Alec knows James better than anyone. Has known him the longest in the field and saw the train wreck he was after Vesper. But they don’t really do this. He doesn’t ask about James’ lovers. Of course, there haven’t been any since Vesper. Not really.

He’s not even sure what Alec thinks he knows, or what rumors might be spreading through the agency. He never _cares_ much what rumors are circulating about him, but chafes at the idea that people may have opinions about him and Q. “What do you want to know?”

“Are you going to break him?”

God, he hopes not. “Q’s more resilient than you know.”

“Not very reassuring. He’s a good Quartermaster. He’s…”

“A grown man,” James asserts. “And knows me well enough to know the mess he’s walking into.”

“Does he?” Alec challenges. “Have you told him about Vesper?”

James shrugs. “We didn’t have a lot of time for life stories as we were chasing down Franz, but he’s read the file. And no doubt the personnel files in the years after.”

“That’s not the same,” Alec replies, taking another sip.

“It’s not,” James agrees, sighing. “But duty calls. And he needs time. I’m still hoping that when I get back – assuming I get back – we’ll have time to sort ourselves properly.”

Alec watches him for a long while as James nurses his drink. The scrutiny feels familiar. Assessing, but not chastising. If Alec seems mildly surprised that James isn’t denying involvement and is talking about a future, he barely shows it. After a moment, he nods and finishes his drink in one swallow.

“Okay.”

Bond blinks. “Okay?”

“Da. The poor boy’s been mooning over you for months—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“— and is one of the few people I know who actually stands up to you. You’ll do each other good, as long as you’re taking it seriously. And management will hate it,” Alec says with a grin. “That will be fun to watch.”

“Neither Q nor I are afraid of management…”

“So much the better,” Alec says, clinking James’ glass again.

And just like that, they’re fine. James buys another round and they talk about whatever non-classified, non-feelings-related topics they can come up with. It’s easy, as it always is with Alec, and they part an hour later to set off in opposite directions to carry out the Queen’s business. And though he doesn’t need Alec’s permission to pursue Q, knowing that Alec saw something in James that put him at ease gives James a bit of hope. Perhaps he won’t have to battle the entire agency if he wants to date Q. Not that it would deter _him_ , but it might put Q off.

He opens the text app on his phone and scrolls through the conversation with Q’s satellite phone. The sparse back and forth of information from the days of the mission, followed by the photo in Portugal, and now a dozen or so that James has sent into the ether. They are getting increasingly personal as James becomes convinced that Q will never have that phone again and will never see them. He’s using it more or less as a confessional that doesn’t require him to risk lightning bolts by entering a church. The texts start simple and vague.

JB: Remind me to ask about your cats.

JB: Isn’t ‘Crisium’ Latin? Does that make your family Italian or Spanish origin? Or is it a joke because you solve crises?

He’s taking Q at his word that he’s never lied to James, which means he really was born in Brixton. But that humble beginning seems at odds with the mystery that is Q, and James can’t quite reconcile it. And he _could_ try to search on his own, but he’s resisted, preferring to let Q tell his story when he’s ready, but texting these little questions as he thinks of them. Perhaps when they’re together again, he’ll even show Q the list.

Of course, after weeks of Q not replying, James has become bolder. Shown more than just topics he’s interested in, questions he has. He’s taken to writing a text every night, even as he chastises himself for being overly sentimental. He sends pictures of where he’s been. Nothing compromising. Nothing that would tip anyone off if they took over the number and started receiving pictures from a stranger, but things that Q might appreciate and even understand if he were aware of James’ mission details.

He sends other things. More personal things.

JB: Between the destruction of my family home and the psychopathy of my foster brother, you’ve borne witness to more ghosts of my childhood than anyone else alive.

JB: Is it strange to find that comforting?

JB: Because I do.

Or the more direct—

JB: I’m still upset that Franz’s goon ruined our date.

JB: Well, _ruin_ may be the wrong word, considering how it turned out, but I didn’t get to enjoy you in your dinner jacket for nearly as long as I would have liked.

JB: Perhaps you would consider a redo. I’m not sure I can find a formal dining car in London, but there are numerous appropriate restaurants.

From northern Greece he’s sent to Montenegro, where he again targets the wife of the mark and charms information out of her, excusing himself with a fake phone call once he has it. He calls into Q Branch with the name of the next lead and makes his way across the border with Croatia, dictating a mission report as he drives. There will still be paperwork upon his return, but R set up the dictation to simplify the process and ensure MI6 at least has a draft in a timely fashion, since everyone is out doing back to back missions at the moment. He likes it. The time driving feels like a waste, and as the weeks drag on, it’s also when he feels his fatigue the most. Dictating the mission brief helps keep him alert. Well, alertish. He finishes up and tosses the phone onto the passenger seat as the narrow road finally winds down to the sea.

He hasn’t had a break — a real break — since before Mexico. Though strictly speaking, he was on vacation during _Día de Muertos_. The adrenaline associated with killing Franz and saving Q is wearing off. It’s well past ten when he checks into The Pucic Palace, a 17th-century Baroque building inside the 13th-century wall of the old city of Dubrovnik. He’s pleasantly surprised to find that not only has he been given a room on the top floor, but his reservation spans three nights. Perhaps R found something for him to look into here before moving onto Italy. Perhaps he’ll get to sleep in.

The room is lovely, with a view of the plaza — already covered in fairy lights for Christmas — a stocked bar, and a tang of salt on the air. He unpacks his suitcase, pours himself a scotch, and digs his phone from his pocket to snap a photo to send into the ether.

And freezes.

01110001: What do you want to know about my cats?

01110001: Crisium *is* Latin. Well done, you. I’m happy to explain why it became one of my aliases, but it’s too long a story to text.

01110001: Thank you for the pictures. They were a lovely surprise.

He checks the clock; it’s not even 9:30 yet in London. Thumbing the button to connect a voice call, he feels nervous for the first time in recent memory.

“Hello, James,” comes a familiar voice after only two rings.

“Q.” He feels almost winded. His mind stutters for a moment before asking, “You _were_ getting the texts?”

“I only just saw them. I asked R to set up a new phone with that number, but it took her a while to get to it, and then a bit longer to smuggle it to me, and then even longer for me to pull the old data off the server.” There’s a slight pause. Enough time for James to note how much more like himself Q sounds. Stronger...all crisp syllables and quick intelligence. “Are you disappointed that I wasn’t responding all along, or that I saw them at all?”

Astute. Always so astute. “I honestly thought you might never see them. But I’m glad you have.”

“Good. They were… It’s easy to feel forgotten when you’re isolated in Medical. I’m sure you know what I mean. It was quite nice to break into the old account and see texts spread out for weeks. It was…well, thank you.”

James snaps a picture out the window at the illuminated plaza and sends it to Q, hearing the notification sound on the other end. “Now I’m caught up for tonight,” he says. “And though I’m pleased you liked them, you don’t have to thank me. I was sending them for my own sake. It felt... strange being alone after our mission.” He doesn’t say he misses Q. That’s not a thing one should say. But it hangs in the air anyway.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Q remarks on the photo. “You made it to Dubrovnik. I was hoping you’d manage it tonight. The next few days are meant to be good weather.” There’s another pause, but before he can ask Q why he’s staying so long, Q adds, “So, you asked about my cats?”

“Yes. Well, in Seville, when your stray was first brought to us, I told Madeleine you had other cats, but I realized I didn’t know what their names are or what kind they are. And… I didn’t like it. Not knowing. It feels like something I should know if... Well, with the other things I do know about you. All I’ve heard is that they’re named for famous mathematicians or coders.”

“Anyone in Q Branch could have given you that information,” Q points out.

James doesn’t really have an answer for that. He doesn’t want the information unless Q is willing to give it to him. Any information, really, but even this. He’s a spy, but he doesn’t want to spy on Q. “I’ve been trying to imagine what they might be,” he offers instead, “assuming you have both a tom and a queen.”

“And what have you come up with?” Q asks, humor in his voice. As usual, James feels Q’s heard everything he didn’t say.

“Lady Lovelace and Dr. Turing?” James suggests.

“You do know me,” Q says, a pleased tone in his voice. “I did have an Ada and Alan, but that was a while back. The undisputed queen of the castle, at least until recently, is Maggie, named for Margaret Hamilton, who programmed for the Apollo missions in America. My tom is named Frédéric, because when he was a kitten he would always walk across the piano keys if I didn’t lower the guard.”

“You play piano? And know Chopin?”

“I’m not completely uncultured, James. Freddie’s in love now. He and VB curl up together to sleep every night. Maggie’s not sure what to make of it,” he muses. “Which means I now have two cats named for musicians and only one for a programmer. Huh. Times change, I suppose.”

“Veebee?”

“I’ll send you a link when we’re done. You also asked about Crisium. As you said, it’s Latin for Crisis, but that’s not wholly why I chose it as an alias.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “And unlike the information about the cats, the only other people who know this are dead or in hiding.”

James’ stomach flips at the realization he’s about to be trusted with something real… something important. “I’ll take it to my grave.”

“Don’t say that. That’s what she said.”

“M?”

“M,” Q confirms. “When she found me, I was… well, I considered myself a vigilante hacker. Grey to white hat, in my own mind. There were some who disagreed. I was working out of France, a bit north of Paris, where my mother’s family is from and still have vineyards. It’s lovely — you’d like it — and they still produce a charming hypocras. That part of France used to be called Picardy…”

“Ah, so that’s why you used Picard and Jean-Luc as aliases.”

That stops Q short. “You know Star Trek?”

James chuckles. “I’m not completely uncultured, either, Q.”

“Fair enough,” he says through a laugh. “So once those aliases had to be retired, I looked a little further afield. The moon has a Picard Crater in the Mare Crisium—”

“Sea of Crises...”

“That’s the one. I was causing more crises back then than solving them, but it was mostly for bad people.”

“Mostly.”

Q sighs. “Hence my recruitment by M. She saw what I was trying to do, even if I colored outside the lines a bit. She had faith in my abilities and intent, even if my methods were unorthodox.”

“She had the same faith in me,” James adds, emotion softening his voice.

“I know she did. Part of why I kept watching you even when you were an utter arse.”

“I was never.”

“Hmmm. Anyway, she convinced me I could get better results working for her than on my own. And she was right. Less lucrative, more stressful, but with more lasting results. I never regretted coming in. God, I miss her.”

James does too. He’s grown to appreciate Mallory, but it’s not the same. He had no idea he shared this with Q. “I do, too.”

“She’d be proud of you, you know. Chasing the leads she sent from the grave. Relentless pitbull that you are.”

“I thought I was an old ship, not an old dog.”

Q snorts. “You break metaphors as much as anything else.”

How much has he broken Q, James wonders? He sounds much the same. It _feels_ the same. It feels like a conversation they could have in bed, teasing and intimate. “Well, I didn’t do it alone. How are you?”

“Oh, you know,” Q says after a moment’s pause. “Terrorizing the admins. They tried to keep me out of the branch, but as soon as I got my hands on a tablet I hacked into the firewall that _I_ built,” the exasperation in his voice makes James laugh. “I read all the mission reports from the time I was isolated. They decided at that point they’d _let_ me come in part-time, and go home when off duty. I’m still meant to go into Medical for physical therapy, and there’s something a bit off with my right leg, but considering what might have happened, I feel fantastic. Especially now.”

“I did warn them not to let you get bored. You’re the most dangerous man I know when you have too much time and a device in your hands.”

Q snorts. “Flatterer.”

James smirks and takes a sip of his scotch.

“It’s a good idea, actually,” Q says.

“Flattering you?”

“Well, maybe,” Q concedes with a laugh. “But I meant the redo.”

Oh. _Oh._ “Name the time. I’ll make the arrangements.”

“Well, I _am_ bringing you in…”

“Q, you can’t start giving me preferential treatment.”

“I’m not. Well, I upgraded your room, but that hovel you got stuck with in Turkey was abysmal. I’m bringing everyone in over the next week or so. You’ve all been out on back-to-back missions — you the longest — and it was good at first. R had you chasing the rats as they scampered around sussing out the new order. But now they’ve gone to ground, and we have more data than we can analyze, and you are all getting tired to the point that we risk mistakes. It’s dangerous and it doesn’t need to be. So catch a few days’ rest in Dubrovnik, and R and I will sort one more mission for you on the way home, and we’ll have you back in time to do your Christmas shopping.”

“That’s just what’s been worrying me,” James quips. “So, do you have a preference in where we go? I don’t think I can find a formal dining car without leaving the country. I was considering a more... stationary venue.”

“As long as you’re wearing a dinner jacket, I’m not bothered.”

“Saturday next,” James proposes. “I’ll pick you up at 8 for the late seating.”

“Yes. I… yes. Perhaps… best to make it somewhere that doesn’t require a lot of walking,” Q suggests.

“I’ll bear that in mind,” James answers, a bit more seriously. Q sounds so normal, it’s easy to forget how seriously he was injured, and that there may be implications for a while to come.

He hears Q yawn, and suddenly feels knackered himself. Wishing that he could pull Q into bed with him, he reminds himself to be grateful. Grateful Q is alive and himself. Grateful this intimacy still sits comfortably between them, even with everything they went through. Grateful he can come home soon and see Q in person and maybe… maybe carry on where they left off.

“You should get some sleep,” he says. “The doctors always tell me that sleep and a dearth of scotch are the keys to recovery.”

“And you always listen so well,” Q quips. “You’re right, though. I’ll be in touch soon with your last stop on the way home.”

“Don’t forget to put Saturday in your calendar.”

“It’s already entered.”

There’s a pause, and James has the ridiculous thought that they could just stay on the line indefinitely. He huffs a laugh, because Q isn’t making a move to leave either, and the soft snort on the other end of the line tells him Q is equally aware of what they’re doing.

“Goodnight, Q,” he says to prevent any absurdity.

“Goodnight, James. Dream well.”

James shuts down the call and finishes his scotch, and pads off to the loo to wash his teeth and prepare for bed.

As he’s making sure he doesn’t have an alarm set for the next morning, he realizes that a text has come in from Q.

01110001: How Cherysh became V.B.: [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uC-tq3AOPFE&list=RDuC-tq3AOPFE&index=1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uC-tq3AOPFE&list=RDuC-tq3AOPFE&index=1)

He listens to the song and laughs out loud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Verse of the Theme of Vicarious Bliss:  
> “Somewhere in the middle of the 45  
> I saw the cities disappear in the blink of an eye  
> A little more attention to the shimmering waves  
> Everything underneath is a giveaway  
> And even if you said I'd be king for a day  
> I'd still keep on turning and drive the other way  
> The holidays are coming and I guess it's no surprise  
> I have to feed your cat, her name is Cherish with a 'Y'  
> Tell me what I missed, my Vicarious Bliss.  
> You put me at risk by telling me this.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, much thanks to Ducky and Midrashic for the beta help. 
> 
> Remember when I said one more chapter? Yeah, no. Three is my guess now; this one and two more. In part, it's the readers' fault. They write things like "save the cat," "the drill would have pulled his hair out," and "Q Branch would give him a shovel talk," and I'm all "okay, sure" "yup" and "oh my god that HAS to happen." So thanks to all of you making suggestions. At least some of them are making it in.
> 
> And very special thanks to Boffin1710. I described the neighborhood I wanted for Q in this fic, and Boffin directed me to the PERFECT place...mentioned in this chapter, but not really appearing until the next.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading and for all the help.

**Group Threshold** noun. \ɡro͞op, ˈthresh-hōld\

1: the critical mass necessary for any group to be functional and sustainable, often engendering cooperation and loyalty _._

 

James wakes slowly with the sun warming his sheets and the sounds of the plaza drifting into his room. It takes a split second for him to remember where he is and why he isn’t up at dawn. No mission. Dubrovnik. In a room Q upgraded him to before answering his texts, taking his call, and agreeing to a redo of their date.

James grins with his eyes still closed and allows himself to sink back into the linens and luxuriate in a rare lazy morning, courtesy of Q. He sounded good last night. Like himself. Like the man James had grown used to falling asleep with and waking up to over the course of their mission. He can almost imagine Q is here with him now. The bed is so warm and he feels so…

He sighs and drags his hand down his chest, down his abdomen, to cup his hardening cock. Q’s voice last night — wry, quick, affectionate, disarming — was a call back to the time before the horrors of the crater and hospital. Back to the train. Back to warm skin and lithe muscles and a quick tongue and hot mouth.

Fucking _Christ_ what a mouth he has. James strokes himself in earnest now, remembering the glint in Q’s eyes as he slid his mouth over James' cock all those weeks ago. The meticulous, unrelenting attention that brought James right to the edge of oblivion before Q climbed up James’ body, lined himself up and sank down—

James comes with a groan.

He nearly drifts back to sleep in the aftermath, body sated and warm, muscles heavy with sleep and the release of pent-up tension. He doesn’t quite, but his mind drifts, and he almost _smells_ Q in the sheets with him.

Just another week or so, and perhaps he won’t have to use his imagination.

An hour later, showered, dressed, and leaving a tip for the hotel staff to change the sheets, he heads out into the sunshine. Dubrovnik is a lovely city, ancient but somehow bursting with life, the survivor of wars both recent and lost to history.

He feels a great affinity for it. He walks its narrow alleys and streets, sampling its food and wine, trying to remember that the holidays are approaching, despite the Mediterranean sun. He considers buying some Krafne to bring back to Q Branch, but they’d be long stale by the time he got home.

He passes the Franciscan Library and determines that the computers in the Reading Room are available to the public. Since any search he does on his phone may be visible to Q, he spends an hour in the cool, ancient room searching restaurants for their date. Many of the poshest places are already booked for the holiday. He also expects that while Q may appreciate quality — and wants James in a dinner jacket — he’d probably prefer less ostentation than, say, The Savoy would offer. He finally settles on a choice and texts Q.

JB: Do you mind if I pick you up at 7 instead of 8? Available reservations are a bit sparse.

It takes a few minutes for the reply to come in, but considering Q is working, that’s not surprising.

01110001: That’s fine. I’m not planning to work Saturday anyway, so I’m at your service whenever you please.

James quirks a smile.

JB: A dangerous offer.

01110001: Well, as it turns out, R is rather annoyed that I’m not paying more attention to my recovery. She’d like to kick me out of the branch at the moment. So she’s thrilled that I’m taking a few days to prepare for the holidays.

JB: Is that so? Staying in London or heading to France?

01110001: London. I’ve had enough travel for a bit. How’s Dubrovnik?

JB: Quiet, but sunny. Do you have a mission for me yet?

01110001: R and I are still prioritizing targets. Go work on your tan or whatever idle agents do.

James is horribly tempted to type _yes dear_ , but he isn’t sure enough of Q’s intentions to resort to teasing.

JB: Yes, Quartermaster.

By his third day in Dubrovnik, he’s rested and restless, and grateful when the instructions for the mission come in from R. Until he realizes it’s in Venice, a city he once loved but has successfully avoided for years.

And it hasn’t been hard. He suspects M the former added something to his file about 007 not being allowed in Venice — there were certainly numerous other cities to which MI6 had agreed to never again send 007 at the request of _their_ governments. Mexico City is surely on that list now.

But he always suspected the Venice ban was more of a kindness than a curse.

He’s still reading through the details when a text comes through.

01110001: Belay that order. That mission was meant to go to 004.

JB: It’s fine. Venice is on my way back to London. No need to make Marcus come down from Germany.

There’s a bit of a delay before the response comes back.

01110001: Are you sure?

JB: Perfectly.

And it _is_ fine, strangely enough. He’s even surprised at how little the familiar sights seem to bother him. It’s not that what happened with Vesper is unimportant, just that it no longer consumes him. It’s now more like the death of his parents or foster father; there’s a dull ache and a fondness — yes, he can give her that now — but it doesn’t drag him into a state of despondency. It doesn’t curb his impatience to get back to London and Q.

He walks into Q Branch six days later, data in hand and suit a bit rumpled from travel, noting the hush and the eyes that follow him as he makes his way to the station facing the wall of monitors.

“007,” R greets. “Welcome home.”

“Ta, R,” he says, handing over the drive, his Walther, and an earpiece.

“Q will be delighted,” she comments, pulling up the equipment checklist. “M would like the finished action report next week. We’ve submitted a preliminary based on your dictations. You can find it on the network drive and edit it with any additional information.”

“Thank you. Is Q here, by chance?” he asks, placing his hands in his pockets and surveying the room. The Minions are definitely watching him and not being particularly subtle about it.

“You’ve missed Q by a few hours. I don’t expect him to be back today.”

And tomorrow’s Saturday, so essentially, he won’t get to see Q before their official date. That’s not terrible, but he had hoped to see him sooner. As R puts the equipment in a holding box, one of the Minions comes up to them. James has definitely seen her before. She’s a team lead or something along those lines, but James doesn’t know her.

“I’ve got it working, R,” she says, glancing at Bond.

“Oh, really?” R folds her hands together and raises an eyebrow. “Care to give us a demonstration?”

The Minion switches places with R so she’s standing at the keyboard, and brings up several CCTV feeds on the multitude of monitors. “So, you just type in a license plate number. Here, let’s use the one off that red BMW.” She reads it off the screen and types it in. “And the program will find it, determine the direction that the vehicle is moving, and adjust the pattern of traffic signals to slow its progress.”

As they watch for the next few minutes, the BMW, which had been travelling through London at a reasonable clip, finds itself hitting every red light.

“Very impressive, Lakshmi! That is remarkably effective. If we’re ever trying to capture someone fleeing a scene, this could help tremendously.”

“Oh, I think there are a great number of potential applications,” the Minion — Lakshmi — asserts, looking pointedly at Bond. He glances at the screen showing the unfortunate Beemer sitting at a red light, still. R fights a smile.

“Oh, and Jackson has the financial bomb ready,” Lakshmi continues.

“Financial bomb?” Bond asks, because he’s starting to think this is actually directed at him, not R.

“Well, we already have the ability to cancel credit cards, of course,” Lakshmi maintains.

“Of course,” Bond responds with trepidation.

“But now we can also link into the major credit agencies and lower credit scores enough that new cards can’t be issued, _and_ the program will automatically reassert the low scores, even if the target goes through the effort of correcting the information. They wouldn’t be able to get a _petrol_ card.”

“That _would_ be crippling,” Bond acknowledges with a sigh.

“On the other hand, Peter’s materials research isn’t going as well,” Lakshmi reports with a sad little look at R.

“Oh?” R says, biting back a grin.

“He’s found a material that will damage car paint and not affect skin, but unfortunately, it also seems to cause structural damage to the car frame, which was really more damage than he intended.”

“Wait, what official use could that have?” Bond asks, trying to imagine when -6 would want to mark a car by damaging the paint.

“Oh, this one’s more of a labor of love,” Lakshmi answers with a sweet smile. “Sometimes we just work on research that doesn’t have an obvious application to missions, just in case it proves useful.”

“Thank you for the report, Ms. Darsha,” R replies. “I’m sure 007 is impressed with the ingenuity of Q Branch.”

Lakshmi turns and makes her way back to her station. The red BMW is still at a red light.

“They’re terrifying,” Bond observes quietly.

“They’re protective of the Quartermaster,” she concedes.

He surveys the room. The Minions aren’t hostile exactly, but they’re normally a bit intimidated by him. Or just indifferent. And that is _not_ what he’s getting from them at present.

“They blame me for his injuries.” No more than he blames himself, surely.

R’s expression softens. “Q’s made it quite clear that it was his choice to go. No, it’s not the past they’re concerned about.”

Ah. “So that was my ‘shovel talk’, was it?”

“I believe that was the intent,” R admits with a gleam in her eye. “If he finds out, he’ll be furious. He hates being coddled or underestimated—”

“He does,” James concurs, because he likes to think he knows something about Q at this point.

R stops short, giving James an assessing look.

“Well, _I_ won’t be the one to tell him,” James says. “And you can assure Ms. Darsha that I received her… _their_ message.” Because clearly she was speaking on behalf of the branch as a whole. Not that he has any intention of being scared off. He starts for the door.

“007,” R calls. He turns back to her and tilts his head. She watches him carefully for a moment, before continuing quietly, ”The Quartermaster is still walking with a cane and is rather self-conscious about it. It would be best not to focus on it.”

And suddenly he feels very differently about his whole encounter with Q Branch. They don’t want him to fail in wooing Q. They want him to be _worthy_ of Q. And he wants that, too.

“Thank you, R. I’ll bear that in mind.”

She nods and gives him a wink. He gives the room a small smile and turns to go.

It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it. Alec even mentioned that management would hate their relationship. The two of them had toasted to the thought and laughed about it. But James hadn’t fully appreciated how… how _involved_ all of MI6 would be in his involvement with Q. So much of their courtship to date — if it could be called that — had occured on mission while they were on their own. But if it were to become real and long-term, the entire agency would try to have a say. Would judge whether he were treating Q well.

And if Q Branch is giving him a shovel talk, that means that they know James and Q have plans to go out. Which means Q hasn’t tried to keep it quiet.

And that’s a bit wonderful.

James gets home to find another surprise. Mixed in with his mail is a package from Morocco, the return address being the very tailor he’d bought their suits from. Curious, he opens it to find an exact replica of the dinner jacket he’d worn on the train. He reaches for his phone.

JB: A special order from Morocco?

The reply comes in about 15 minutes later, after James has grabbed a shower and is pouring himself a scotch.

01110001: Well, if we’re to have a proper redo… needs must.

James chuckles and takes a sip of his drink. Night has descended and he’s tired from travel and jet lag, but finds himself revived by Q on the other end of the phone line. Text line.

JB: Now I wish I’d booked us on the train. But I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about waking up in Scotland.

01110001: I doubt I’d have minded. But perhaps it’s best to keep our travels closer to home for the time being. We’ve both been away rather a lot. Are you going to tell me where we’re going?

JB: No. Are you going to tell me where you live so I can pick you up?

01110001: You haven’t sussed that out yet? That’s surprising.

JB: I’ve been rather busy, Q.

01110001: I suppose that’s true.

When an address isn’t forthcoming, James chuckles.

JB: Going to make me work for it, aren’t you?

01110001: I’m still debating. I’m sure you could do it.

JB: I‘m sure I could, too. But I’ve decided I’m not going to search for any information about you that you don’t give me yourself. As tempting as it is to research certain aliases or vineyards north of Paris.

There’s a moment’s delay before Q’s next reply.

01110001: James.

01110001: I’m in Bermondsey.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Ducky and Midrashic for their beta help. I've mucked with it since they last looked, so any mistakes are my own. 
> 
> And to Boffin1710 for the help finding Q's neighborhood and the inspiration for his flat. Just look at this! (https://www.rightmove.co.uk/property-for-sale/property-74119106.html#)
> 
> And finally, thanks to all of you who read this as a WIP and commented and encouraged me. It's been quite the journey, and I appreciate you all so much. I'm about halfway through writing the last chapter, so I'd say another 2 weeks, just to be safe...

**Threshold** noun. \ˈthresh-hōld\

3: in reference to an entrance, the beginning of a state or action, outset, opening.

 

James refastens his tie for the third time, chastising himself for being ridiculous. It’s not like Q hasn’t seen him in his bedclothes. And out of them, for that matter. But despite the fact that he and Q made their first impressions of each other _years_ ago, when both were still reeling from the attack on headquarters, he still finds he wants to dress to impress the man. Almost more than if this were a _real_ first date where they barely knew each other.

He knows Q: his strength and determination, his humor and his bravery. He knows Q’s _worth_. Which makes him want this — whatever’s developing between them — all the more. There’s more at stake than in a normal dinner date. And though a perfectly straight bowtie is unlikely to affect Q’s attitude toward him and any future they may have, James is determined to look as impeccable for him as he would for any stranger.

He sighs at his reflection and renews his attack on the tie. This may not be a real first date where he can make a real first impression, but it’s still the first impression that Q will have of James trying to please _him_. Just him. Not as part of a mission or in the role of 007. Not as a front. Nothing to hide behind...

James is nervous. It’s thrilling and terrifying, and as he _finally_ perfectly knots the tie that Q purchased for him, he finds that he still hopes to make a good impression. He hopes that conversation comes as easily between them as it did when they were on mission. That it wasn’t just the common goal that brought them together, but something that can survive or even thrive in their normal lives. Well, neither of their lives is normal. But that’s actually what gives him hope. He’s had time to think over the last few weeks. And he knows himself. He recognizes when he’s restless or feeling confined by a romantic partner. He waited for that feeling — the need to flee or draw boundaries — but it never came. He only ever missed Q. Missed him in his ear during the day and in his bed at night. Felt… _less_ without him.

He hopes to remedy that. Donning his overcoat and checking that he has the essentials, he heads out. He loads a duffel bag into the boot, polishes a smudge off the paint — because Q _does_ appreciate fine cars almost as much as he does himself — and drives toward the east side of the city.

He crosses the Thames at Tower Bridge, entering a neighborhood that was decaying wharves and warehouses just a decade or so ago, but now boasts some of the trendiest clubs, breweries, and cafes in the city. The historic Bermondsey warehouses have been converted to urban flats, and the streets buzz with hipster life. Turning down a street off the A3, he sees the nightlife is just starting up, really, with groups of 20-somethings wandering the streets. Q would fit in perfectly amongst them, whereas he himself is a bit old for the neighborhood. Still, he can appreciate the bustling cafes and pubs, can see the appeal of the place, dressed for the holidays but not crawling with children. A modern veneer of revitalization over much older bones, from the Victorian warehouses to pubs dating back to the 1600s.

He turns onto a quiet secondary street, and then another street off that, doubling back toward rail tracks and the river. There are fewer pedestrians here, the shops on the street level are closed, while light illuminates the windows of lofts above them. The address that Q gave him appears to be an old warehouse or textile factory, tall and narrow with a peaked roofline — Victorian era maybe. Completely dark. No light emanates from the high windows on this side of the building. Perplexed, he double checks the street number and parks in front of a darkened entrance. A decidedly modern camera covers the front door, and Bond gives it a look as he rings the bell. A moment later the door buzzes briefly, and James just has time to pull it open before it locks again. He’s confronted with a small lobby, modern and bare, and the steel doors of a lift. He presses the button, but nothing happens. A touchscreen to the right of the doors flashes a message, and with a quirk of an eyebrow, James presses his hand against a touchscreen pad. The lift doors open, and James steps inside. Several floors up the doors open again to reveal another door, camera, and security pad.

The door opens before James has quite exited the lift, and Q is there, dressed perfectly in a dinner jacket exactly like the one James remembers from the train, except instead of the black tie he wore on the train, Q’s tie is a very dark green tie that accentuates the color of his eyes and hints at being festive. Q’s hair is trimmed short on the sides to match the new growth coming in where he’d been shaved for surgery, but the top is still long, his curls falling across his brow in a manner that looks more fashionable than unruly. He’s a bit thinner than last James saw him, and he’s leaning on a very polished and slender wooden cane with a stylized wolf head for a handle. But he’s smiling and his color is good and the gleam in his eyes hopeful enough that James wants to kiss him right then.

After a moment of James just smiling back at him, Q huffs a laugh. “You shouldn’t stare,” he says with a mischievous look.

“Then you shouldn’t look like that,” James responds, just as he did last time.

“Come in,” Q says, backing up to let James in and shaking his head in mirth. “I don’t know if we have time for a drink, but at least you can see VB before we go. Where is she?”

He looks around as James comes in and closes the door behind him. Q’s flat is a blend of antique and modern. The old brick walls contrast with the sleek lines of the kitchen and furniture. The exposed wood beams in the ceiling accentuate the geometry of the peaked roof and are stained to match the blond wood floors. Skylights interrupt the white of the ceiling, but during the day, must bathe the room with light. The living space is nearly entirely open, with the kitchen, dining area, and sitting area all in easy view of each other, and an antique grand piano in the corner by windows that show the illuminated Tower Bridge in the distance and roofs of adjacent buildings in the foreground. Bookcases and other furniture are finished mostly in medium to dark woods but the sofa and chairs are largely light creams and greys. There’s even art on the walls, giving James another glimpse into Q’s taste.

“This is beautiful, Q,” he says, finding himself rather jealous. His own flat in Notting Hill is nicely located and has a lot of potential, but Bond has not made any effort to make it a home. _This_ feels like a home, and a subtly posh one at that. Not at all what he expected. “I always assumed you’d live like the art student I first took you for, with a side of crazy cat person/tech nerd. Or that -6 would have forced you into some featureless high-security flat.”

Q tilts his head. “I’ll focus on the compliment there and ignore the insult, shall I?”

“Please,” James laughs. “You know I like surprises.”

“Hmmm. Well, this has more security than anything -6 could offer. I hope you know me well enough to be sure of that.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. In addition to the elevator access and handprint security, I presume you’ve replaced each and every old window with bullet-proof glass?”

Q nods. “I’m happy to explain all the security features to you someday, but not tonight. Ah, here she is. Look who’s come to visit, VB. Do you remember James?”

She does, apparently, trotting over to rub herself against James’ ankles.

“Hello, cat.” He bends down to scratch her ears. “No mussing my suit.” James looks up to Q and adds, “As much as I’d love to linger and have a tour, we should probably get going. We have to go back across town, and everyone is out for the holidays.”

“Where are we headed?” Q asks as he hobbles over to the closet and pulls out a thick coat. He hooks his cane on the edge of the table as he dons it.

James can’t stop himself. He gets close to Q… close enough to slip his hand onto Q’s waist, between his coat and his jacket. If Q is startled, he doesn’t show it. He just quirks a small smile.

“Hullo,” Q whispers.

“Q,” James sighs. “Would it be terribly improper of me to kiss you _before_ our date?”

“Since when do you worry about being proper?” Q challenges lightly.

“Since I don’t want to mess this up,” James admits.

Q’s expression softens. “I think it would be just the right amount of improper. Come here.”

The feel of Q’s fingers in his close-cropped hair and lips against his mouth make James’ mind stutter. James doesn’t try to deepen the kiss. He just savors the intimacy for a moment -- a closeness he’s been craving for weeks, if he can admit it. God, he’d almost forgotten how good Q smells. He nips at Q’s lips one last time and just settles his brow against Q’s for a moment.

“We’re headed to Mayfair,” he finally says. “Have to go back to the old-money neighborhoods if you want us to look appropriate in dinner jackets.”

Q huffs a laugh. “I’ll have to get used to it, then, because I _like_ you in your dinner jacket.” Q offers one more kiss and pulls back to fasten his coat. Then he reaches for an attaché and a set of keys.

“Bringing a laptop?” James asks as he exits the flat and waits for Q to lock up and set an alarm.

“No, but there are some medications I should have handy, just in case. I haven’t had a seizure since I left Spain, but it’s best if I carry the meds with me, and this is the most appropriate bag I have.”

“May I?” James asks, offering to carry it while Q navigates to the security panel by the elevator with the cane.

“I can manage,” Q says, starting to drape the strap across his shoulders.

“I’m sure you can,” James agrees. “But I’d still prefer to be useful.”

Q hesitates for a moment, but then hands James the bag. At his touch, the security panel lights up, and the lift doors open.

“So how did you score such a beautiful flat so near to the office?” James asks as they make their way to the car and get in.

“Oh, I’ve owned the building for about twelve years,” Q explains. “It was payment, if you will, from a developer I helped back in my grey-hat days — one of his employees was embezzling from him and it was a right mess proving it. The building was completely derelict and rat-infested, and several blocks from where the neighborhood was remaking itself at the time. I think his plans were to wait for the area to become completely revitalized and then tear it down and build a high-rise, but it was going to be at least another decade before that would pay off. I liked the bones, and once the rubbish was cleared away and I could get to the top windows and see the view… well, I wasn’t about to tear it down. I have a garage on the ground floor, a server array on the second, and I let a separate entrance on the other side of the building to MI6 as a safe house.”

A government entrepreneur, that’s what Q is.

“So when you say you have a mortgage and cats…”

Q smiles. “I had to take some of the equity out to fix it up. But, yeah, it’s not bad. My salary covers that and the server space and safe house cover the taxes. It works out.”

James takes the route by the river, where the trees are illuminated with fairy lights and the darkness hides the grit that can mar the scenery during the daylight. They make small talk, because so much of what sits between them feels too big to start with, even with the kiss they’d shared in Q’s flat. Q mentions that Madeleine has decided to stay in Spain with a new identity provided by Q and security by MI6 until they’re all sure she’s no longer being targeted. Q’s fairly sure a certain doctor helped with those plans.

James chuckles. “I’m glad she’s found some happiness out of all this. Maybe she can finally find some peace.”

“Funny,” Q muses, looking out over the water as they take the bridge west, “she said the same about you.”

They pull up to the Connaught, and James offers the valet a handsome tip and instructions regarding the case in the boot. Then he leads Q with a hand on the small of his back through the opulent, old-world lobby and to the entrance of Hélène Darroze.

The maitre d’ takes their coats to check and has them led to a private corner table. The room is luxurious but not grandiose, reflecting a more modern elegance than the rest of the historic hotel. Q admires it with an approval James doubts he would have bestowed upon the more flamboyant restaurants at the Savoy.

They take their seats, Q once again hanging his cane off the edge of the table so it won’t be misplaced. Q fiddles for a moment with his watch, and James realizes that he’s using the app that checks for electronic surveillance. Clever, clever man. When he’s done, James raises a questioning eyebrow and Q nods. The area is clear. As long as no one is walking by, they should be free to talk.

Their waiter comes and introduces himself. When asked if they’d like a cocktail, James raises an eyebrow at Q, “Would you like your custom Manhattan?”

“Please,” Q answers, his expression amused as James orders the drink, dark cherries and walnut liqueur and all. For himself, James orders a dirty martini, shaken, and their waiter leaves them to review the menu.

“This looks amazing,” Q says. “And I’m famished.”

“Are you? Well, let’s feed you up, then. I daresay you’ve had too much hospital fare of late.”

Q snorts a laugh. “Not for a week or so, but I’m still making up for it. I doubt gelatins are on the menu, but I’ll be avoiding any of those, for certain.”

“Only rich desserts. Understood.”

They make their selections, including a bottle of wine with dinner, and receive their cocktails.

“To our redo,” James says, raising his glass.

“May it not be interrupted by murderous thugs _or_ carol singers,” Q responds, and they both drink to that.

They talk about light things. Gossip from the holiday party they both missed, James because he was on mission and Q because he was still confined to bed much of the time. It was smaller than most years, because everyone was stretched thin with dismantling Nine Eyes and whatnot, but there were still a few highlights. Moneypenny apparently brought a date from -5 and was the talk of the evening. M’s first act upon being reinstated — after arresting C — was to grant year-end bonuses to everyone who had been involved in protecting MI6 data or keeping Nine Eyes from going live. Q and James should both expect tidy sums, not that James has bothered to look at his balance since returning.

There’s a lull in the conversation, and James’ eyes are drawn again to Q’s cane.

“This is lovely,” he says, dragging a finger along the wolf head.

“Q Branch went in on it together when they realized I’d need to use something on our date — the one Medical sent me home with was _beyond_ hideous. They’re all obsessed with _Game of Thrones_ and I have dark curly hair, so…”

“House Stark,” James surmises.

“You know the show?”

“Well, I’ve never watched it,” James chuckles. “But it’s hard to be alive today and not know some things about it. Even Dubrovnik was hyping it.”

“They film there,” Q explains. “I like it, though. The cane, I mean. If I must use one — and for the moment it seems I must — this has a certain…”

“Nerdy elegance?”

“Something like that,” Q agrees with a laugh, straightening a new pair of specs that are nearly frameless.

“And how are you?” James asks, because it finally feels like the conversation has drifted close enough — and Q has seemed comfortable enough — that it’s allowed.

“Better now,” Q responds. “I’m getting stronger, my coordination is back except my leg, which Medical says is improving and would do more quickly if only I would be more dedicated to my PT.”

“Which is probably true,” James asserts with a smile.

“Yes, but it’s so _boring_ , and now that I can get around and actually do things… well, I find I’m easily distracted. And I get tired, which is why R keeps sending me home, but when I’m in the branch, I’m able to be Q, which is a relief.”

“For me, too,” James agrees.

Their appetizers come, and Q extols the flavor, and they discuss the food and the room and order some wine for their entrees.

“May I ask you a personal question?” Q wonders as the starter plates are cleared.

“You may,” James answers, taking a sip of the wine.

“Were you really okay in Venice?”

James straightens, surprised to have the subject raised, but a bit grateful he didn’t have to find an opening. He takes another sip of wine, deciding how much he wants to say now.

“I was,” he finally affirms, setting his glass down. “It was a bit of a relief, actually, to almost enjoy that city again.” He tilts his head, observing Q’s reaction. “Alec tells me that I need to discuss Vesper with you, and I have every intention of doing so, if you want to hear. But I wasn’t sure it was a topic for tonight.”

Q shrugs. “I think it can be. We both of us have our pasts, and understanding them a bit — at least to avoid causing pain — will help us. Assuming we’re considering similar things for our future.”

James nods. It’s wise, though part of him just wants to bask in Q’s presence. “She was important,” he admits. “I fell… well, it had been a long time since I’d fallen that hard that fast.” James exhales and braces himself. “And she betrayed me, which was devastating, and she did it to protect me and died in Venice for her trouble, and that… I’ve lived with both the hurt and guilt for a long time. And I swore, after her, I’d never form another real attachment. Never give into the fairy tale that I can have romance or a relationship in my life.”

“Oh,” Q swallows awkwardly, straightening in his seat.

“But that was before,” James continues.

“Before?”

“Yes, before this young boffin showed up out of nowhere and called me out on my shite, but also saw what I was trying to do, and _helped_. And earned my trust by being so _devastatingly_ competent. And… and kind. And unflinching even when faced with everything I am — I know it’s not all… palatable. And funny and smart and brave and _sexy_ as hell, with an amazing capacity to surprise me, always in a good way.”

Q is staring now, speechless.

“And, well, you were there. You know what happened.”

Their entrees come, cutting off any response Q might have, but it’s just as well. Q seems to need a moment to digest James’... it wasn’t quite a declaration, but Q is smart, and undoubtedly knows what James is saying. Hoping for.

The waiter asks if he can bring them anything else and leaves with a flourish and a _Bon Appetit._ Q is still quiet, looking distracted but delighted with his food. Blushing a bit. With a small nod to each other, they both dig in. Q groans in pleasure with his first bite. It’s both charming and, well… James likes it when Q groans.

“Too much?” James asks quietly, hoping he hasn’t misread everything and overplayed his hand.

“God, no. It’s… it’s brilliant. Just. More than I expected or dared hope for. I mean, of course, I _was_ there.” He’s still blushing, and his eyes are gleaming as they watch James. “I know the events, but… I don’t think I knew… all that.”

“Because despite your brilliance, you can allow humility to blind you,” James says with a soft smile. “Alec saw how affected I was immediately.”

“That’s… strange and a bit terrifying,” Q admits with a startled smile. “And I’ve earned my humility, you know I have. You were there when I let Silva into our system.”

“We _all_ earn our humility. If it’s real. And the things that we survive make us cautious, which _can_ be wisdom, but just as often can push us to crippling fear and misplaced distrust, in ourselves and others. As I’ve so aptly demonstrated.”

Q shakes his head and takes another bite. “James Bond, a shining example of self-awareness and reflection.”

James barks a laugh too loud for the posh room, and immediately covers it with a sip of wine. Q is giving him a wicked smile, and James would be more frightened at how smitten he feels if he didn’t think Q was there with him.

“May I ask you something else?” Q asks after a few more bites.

“Of course.”

“I read over the mission reports from after Spain.”

That feels like an abrupt change of subject. “Problem, Quartermaster?” he asks quietly.

“I noticed that several times, you had the option to… that is to say, in the past in a similar situation you’d have just…”

“I didn’t seduce anyone for information.”

“Exactly.”

“And you’re wondering why?”

“Not quite. It seems… perhaps it’s presumptuous but it seems likely you did it for me, or to protect this potential between us.”

“See? You are smart.”

Q huffs a laugh. “What I don’t know is if you were avoiding it because _you_ wanted to, or because you thought I’d be disappointed or angry if you… carried on as usual. And since that could affect both our work, it seems worth a conversation.”

Interesting. James takes another bite of his meal, taking some time to consider Q’s question.

“I mean, if we are actually considering pursuing something,” Q continues, straightening his glasses again, “the personal will affect the professional and vice versa, and the more understanding we have…”

“It was both, I think. I felt less inclined to partake… the idea of meaningless sex felt particularly meaningless after what we’d just shared, and it’s never fun to pretend more interest than one has… but I was also concerned that you would see it as a commentary on the unimportance of our encounter, and that would be the entirely wrong thing for you to take away. Without the opportunity to talk to you first, it seemed prudent.”

Q takes a sip of his wine, considering that. “I admit I wasn’t looking forward to reading about you seducing other people, but then I was also concerned when I realized you’d apparently taken that option completely off the table. As much as I’d like to keep you just for myself, I’d never ask you to endanger yourself. And there are times when a honeypot mission is by far the safest option.”

James shifts his free hand closer to Q’s, barely touching his fingers. It feels tremendously intimate.

“If we were to do this,” James starts. “I suppose it would depend on whether I was sent away for long periods, but I’d prefer if our relationship weren’t open. I have trust issues enough, and—”

“I’m not talking about me,” Q insists.

“Yes, but it’s hardly fair,” James counters. “You know I take loyalty very seriously. That would extend to you.”

“Which I’m very pleased to hear, I assure you,” Q replies. “But Britain first. If you’re on mission and it’s the best option, if the _spy_ you are determines it’s the best option, don’t hesitate on my behalf. We can talk about it afterward. It’s more important to me that you come home so that we _can._ ”

James takes a deep breath and nods.

“Good,” Q murmurs. “That’s sorted.”

They continue eating, but there’s a shift between them now. An anticipation in Q’s looks, their declarations making all of this feel much more like a prelude to something new and important. Though Q is still a mystery in so many ways.

“I have some questions for you, too,” James acknowledges.

“Oh?” Q looks amused as he takes a sip of wine. “Go on then.”

“Who’s TickTock?”

Q nearly chokes on his laugh. “We knew each other in France, and he needed out of that situation as much as I did. He wasn’t the type M thought she could rehabilitate, but she helped me get him somewhere safe and out of trouble. He still helps us from time to time, as you saw. He’s been in a safe house for the last few weeks, but things seem to be calming down enough that he can go home.”

“So, he’s not a boyfriend or an ex?”

Q shakes his head. “No, straight as an arrow in that regard. I used to regret that in my late teens, but we’re good mates, and would have long ago lost track of each other if we’d ever tried anything else. It’s good.”

“Anyone else you were seeing before the mission who might take issue with me claiming your time?”

“No, not recently,” Q assures. “And you?”

James shrugs. “I haven’t dated anyone of consequence for years. At the moment, I’m focused on you,” he says quietly, stroking Q’s finger with the tip of his own.

Q flushes again, but his gaze is steady. And hopeful.

The waiter comes to refill their wine glasses from the bottle and clear their dinner plates. When asked if they’d like to see the dessert menu, James answers, “Absolutely.”

“Oh, I don’t think I can,” Q protests.

“We’re feeding you up, remember? Washing away the memories of hospital food. You said rich desserts only.”

“Actually _you_ said that,” Q corrects with a grin.

“We’ll see the menu,” James announces, accepting two embossed cards, “but we might order dessert to go.”

“Very good, sir.”

James hands one of the cards to Q.

“I really shouldn’t,” Q insists. “But it’s tempting.”

“Which one is tempting?” James asks, looking forward to another peek into Q’s tastes.

“No, not… I mean, they all look lovely. But I was thinking more… I’m just not ready for this evening to end.”

Q looks almost shy, which is endearing considering his almost businesslike manner discussing expectations of their relationship earlier.

James leans forward on the table, his finger still skimming Q’s hand gently. “Do you remember on the train?”

“Of course,” Q murmurs, heat in his eyes.

“No, not that… the next morning,” James continues quietly. “After we’d... when we’d almost fallen back to sleep, but then I checked my watch to see the time... You realized that we’d best get up, and you went from my pliant lover to the Quartermaster — all squared shoulders and determination, despite your nakedness — in the course of a few seconds. I’ll never forget the little sigh you gave, like it was the last thing in the world you wanted, but you realized it was needed. I decided right then that if we both lived through that mess… and you were amenable at all… I would steal you away and check us into a posh hotel somewhere and not let you out of bed for _days_.”

Q’s breath hitches and he looks around the hotel restaurant, a small smile growing. “You didn’t.”

“It’s not presumption,” James insists. “I’m happy to return you home right now and take you on dozens of dinner dates... as many as you like. I’m happy to take you to the bar for a nightcap so we can linger more comfortably. I’m happy to do this,” he motions between them with his free hand, “any way you like. But on the chance that little sigh meant that you wanted to linger in bed as much as I did, yes, I reserved us a room. Out of hope.”

Q tangles his fingers with James’. “I’m not… you should know, James, that I’m not one-hundred percent, yet. Obviously,” he adds, nodding at the cane.

“All I want is you, Q. Whatever that means at the moment.”

Q bites his lip. “Maybe we can order dessert later from room service.”

With a smile, James waves the waiter over and asks for the check.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading. Here are the links for The Connaught and Hélène Darroze, just in case you're interested.
> 
> https://www.the-connaught.co.uk/  
> https://www.the-connaught.co.uk/restaurants-bars/helene-darroze-at-the-connaught/


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Ducky and Midrashic for their beta help. I've once again mucked with it since they last looked, so any mistakes are my own.
> 
> And finally, thanks to all of you who read this as a WIP and commented and encouraged me. It's been quite the journey, and I appreciate you all so much. This is the last chapter, though things were pretty much resolved in chapter 16 and this is really more of an indulgence. Sorry that it took me so long to get it posted. Fest happened, as well as life. But it's extra long and extra indulgent, so I hope that makes up for it. And I hope it leaves you all, um...satisfied...
> 
> Oh, and speaking of Fest, I'm letting this fill a prompt for "massage sex" from my porny collaboration table.

**Threshold of Pleasure** _noun._ \ˈthresh-hōld, əv, pleZHər\

1: short-lived UK psychedelic band with two releases in 1968: _Rain, Rain, Rain_ and _He Could Never Love You Like I Do._

2: Bond will find out at some point

 

 

They make their way to the hotel lobby. The front desk is a vision of old-world style, from the polished wood to the rows of little boxes containing brass keys for each of the rooms. James checks them in, requesting the bag that’s being held behind the desk for him. Q gives him a look, but holds his tongue until they’re alone in the lift.

“What would you have done if I’d said ‘no’?” he asks with a smirk.

“Come back for it later. You’re not offended that I planned ahead, are you?”

Q actually snorts. “You don’t think this attaché merely contains some meds, do you?”

Ah. “It did seem rather heavy for that. What else is in there?”

“Toothbrush. A pair of jeans and a jumper. Not much. A good Quartermaster must be prepared, after all.”

“Without a doubt,” James says, sliding his hand around Q’s waist. He likes the way Q settles against him.

They exit the lift on the top floor and head to the door in the corner. James had been disappointed when he’d made the reservations that there were only suites left, but when he opens the door and sees the windows overlooking Mayfair, the high, peaked ceiling and the glass doors to the balcony, he couldn’t be more pleased.

“This is lovely,” Q exclaims, moving slowly across the room and admiring the view.

“I was hoping to impress you with the architecture, but I don’t think it’s quite as striking as your flat, actually. Seems comfortable enough for a few days, though.”

He sets the bag down on a chair and reaches up to loosen his tie.

“Don’t,” Q says, and James freezes, eying Q for signs that he’s changed his mind.

Q shakes his head with a rueful smile and hobbles back toward James. “I’d like to do that,” he clarifies. “I barely remember undressing you last time.”

“Hmmm. I seem to recall you got distracted, and I had to finish on my own,” James says, lowering his hand and watching Q approach with interest.

Q tuts and says, “Very irresponsible of me. I’ll have to find a way to make it up to you.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” James asks, enjoying the playful gleam in Q’s eyes.

“Think I’ll take my time with it,” Q answers, fingering James’ shirt. “Make sure it’s done properly.”

“I _did_ rip off a button or two in my haste,” James admits, placing a hand on the small of Q’s back to pull him close.

“Brute,” Q chastises. “I’ll have to take more care, since this shirt has come so very far, and—”

James kisses him. And it’s… he’s been anticipating it for so long, he shouldn’t feel surprised, but he’s almost shocked at how right it feels: Q’s fingers in the short hair at the back of his head, the way Q sighs into the kiss like he’s both completely content and also can’t believe how long it took James to finally kiss him. Q scratches his nails gently across James’ scalp a few times and then goes for James’ tie, tugging at the end to loosen it and then unraveling the knot with one hand. James tightens his grasp around Q’s waist with one hand and takes Q’s cane with the other.

“I need that,” Q mumbles into the kiss.

“I won’t let you fall, love,” James says, hooking the wolf head over a nearby table. “I carried you to a cabin through the snow. Do you really think I can’t help you a few feet to the bed? Besides, you need both hands to work the buttons.”

Q huffs a laugh. “Hmm. I suppose I do,” he says, starting in on the topmost button. “I wish I had my strength back. And my flexibility. I’ve gotten rather stiff.”

“I’m a bit _stiff_ myself,” James says, and Q laughs into the kiss. In a more serious tone he adds, “I can be your strength for a bit,” as he walks Q backward toward the bedroom and Q moves to the next button. “We’ll have to work within the limits of your flexibility, though, because I daresay it’s _still_ better than mine, even in a compromised state. I’ll just see if I can’t work the kinks out,” he finishes, nipping at Q’s lips.

“What’s that about my kinks?” Q asks innocently. He’s already managed to get James’ shirt open.

“God, you’re worse than I am,” James snorts, slipping Q’s jacket off one shoulder before switching his grip and sliding it off the other. He tosses it across a chair as they pass by.

“Never. Bloody hell, I missed you,” Q admits earnestly, pushing James’ vest up to expose naked skin.

 _Christ,_ he’s needed this. Q collapses into a seated position as the backs of his knees hit the bed. He’s working James’ belt as James shrugs off his jacket, tie, and shirt.

“Off!” Q commands as he unfastens James’ trousers.

“I thought you were going to undress me slowly,” Bond comments, toeing off his shoes so he can slide his trousers off.

“Bugger _‘slowly’,_ ” Q says, tugging his own jacket from his shoulders.

“Fine,” James agrees, starting on Q’s shirt buttons. “We’ll undress quickly and bugger slowly.”

Q gasps a laugh as James’ lips find his.

James is already hard, but with every inch of Q’s skin that he uncovers his urgency grows. That time on the train when they were last skin-to-skin, all those mornings waking up in each other’s arms, they feel impossibly long ago. Q is just as lovely as before, all contrast between pale skin and dark hair and eyes — if a bit thinner. Meeting James halfway at every turn, with every kiss, every caress. He pulls James closer as he scoots back on the bed, and James crawls over him, reaching to cradle the back of Q’s head and deepening the kiss.

And he freezes. Images flood his mind.

“James?”

He shakes his head, trying to clear it.

“James. What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” James says, kissing Q and then resting his head against Q’s brow for a moment. “Flashback. It’s fine.”

“Flashback of what?” Q asks, concern in his voice.

James sighs and sits up. “The last time I put my hand on the back of your head,” James explains, “it came back wet. It came back…” He shakes his head. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Q’s expression softens.

“It’s fine. I just need to—”

“Don’t.”

James looks at him.

“You’re going to try to bury it, but it won’t work. It never does,” Q says earnestly, and it sounds like the voice of experience. “Just look.” Q sits up and exposes the back of his head. “It’s all healed. Look at it. Touch it. I’m fine. Once my hair gets a little longer, it won’t even show.”

James reaches out hesitantly and touches the scar from the surgery, so thin and straight, and the lump of shiny mangled skin above it, smaller than most of James’ bullet scars. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Q assures. “You know how scars are. Sometimes they’re devoid of sensation…” Q shivers as James gently explores the raised skin. “This one… this one is sensitive.”

“Meaning?”

“That feels nice,” Q admits, letting his eyes close.

James smiles and feels the horror of the flashback slip away. “Oh. That’s… that’s good.” And as if to test Q’s claim, James leans forward and brushes his lips against the bristly hair and raised skin, earning a groan and shiver from Q. It goes straight to James’ cock. “Does anything else hurt I should know about?” he asks against the nape of Q’s neck.

Q whimpers and shakes his head. “The leg is wonky and won’t always support my weight yet or do quite what I want it to, but nothing hurts. Nothing needs coddling. I’m not fragile.”

“No,” James agrees, moving his kisses along the side of Q’s neck to his jaw, helping lower Q back onto the pillow. “You’re the most resilient person I know.”

“Well,” Q scoffs, settling back and wrapping his arms around James’ neck. “I don’t know about that. I’m pretty sure the next time I need a filling the dentist is going to have to put me under general anesthesia.”

James laughs and shakes his head. Damn if Q’s humor isn’t just as dark as his own. “Sorry,” James says.

“Don’t be. I’m fine. It was horrific, but we both made it through, and I won’t let that arse steal any more time from us. Come here.”

Q pulls James back down on top of him, and this time, no dark thoughts intrude. It feels almost celebratory, getting Q undressed, _finally_ feeling skin sliding against skin. James nearly sobs as he settles between Q’s legs and feels their cocks brush. It’s almost too much sensation — too much emotion — and they’ve barely started.

“I want you,” James confesses, hitching one of Q’s legs higher and reaching for the lube he’d set on the side table as he undressed.

“You have me,” Q assures, pulling him closer.

“No.” It sounds like a pick-up line. It sounds like something he’d say on mission. “I don’t mean… Q…”

Q’s fingers brush through James’ hair and his expression softens again. He pulls James down into another soft kiss. “It’s Julien,” he says, the word thick with a French accent, unlike Q’s usual crisp syllables. “And you have me.”

“Julien?” James pulls back to look into Q’s eyes.

“Julien Tate,” Q whispers. “Or Jules, if you prefer.”

It’s a gift. James has no idea what clearance he would officially need to know the Quartermaster’s identity, but he can see in Q’s expression that this is no alias. “Jules,” James tests the name in his mouth. “It suits you much better than Brandon.”

Q gives a soft snort, which transforms into a moan as James drags a slicked finger across his opening. James takes his time, coaxing a vast number of wonderful sounds from Q as he opens him up and prepares him. Q’s fingers are constantly moving, scratching across James’ scalp or exploring his shoulders and back, until at last, they both seem to agree that it’s time, Q tugging at him as James lines himself up.

The name _Julien_ falls from his lips as he pushes in and is surrounded by Q’s slick heat.

They linger over every touch, every slow thrust and every tangling of fingers. They savor it like their meal, luxuriate in it like their decadent room, and when they finally tumble over the edge together, Q offers a long, satisfied sigh in the form of James’ name.

It takes them time to untangle, and James would insist on staying bound together longer if he wasn’t sure he’d have Q to himself in this bed for days. James pads off to clean himself and get a flannel, and after wiping Q clean, flops down on the bed on his stomach and manhandles the pillow until he’s happy with the shape.

Q rolls on his side and grins.

“What?” James asks.

“I love the way you come back to bed after sex.”

“And how’s that?” James asks, smile quirking at the corners of his mouth.

“Like some great, self-satisfied cat, all loose and relaxed and taking over the bed.”

James snorts a laugh. “Going to make me purr?” he asks.

Q rolls his eyes. “Depends on whether you keep making these terrible jokes.” When James raises his eyebrows in mock innocence, Q relents. “Never mind. Yes. I’m going to try my damnedest to do just that,” he answers, leaning forward to kiss James.

“Hmmm. And I daresay you’ll succeed.”

Q smiles and adjusts his pillow.

“Tired?” James asks.

“Not really, but it can still hit me quickly. My stamina is shite right now.”

“Hmmm. Well, in that case, tell me a secret. Since I’m being so good and not spying on you.”

“Oh, I see how it is… get me all sex-addled and then coax my secrets from me. How very 007 of you.” There’s no heat in the accusation though, and Q is grinning at him, so James just waits. “What do you want to know?”

“Just something no one else does. It can be silly, if you like. Favorite color? Or more serious.”

“Hmmm,” Q considers, reaching a hand out to trace James’ shoulder blade. James really does feel like purring. “My parents died when I was young — we have that in common — which is how I came to be on my mother’s family estate with far too much time on my hands and a taste for retribution. And thus started my hacking career.”

“How did they die?”

“Plane crash. I hacked the company and discovered that they weren’t up to date on their maintenance. I sent a load of records to a reporter… it made the news.”

“You could have sued them,” James observes.

Q shrugs. “That wouldn’t have brought my parents back. I really just wanted that situation fixed. Anyway, that’s why I hate flying.”

“Hmmm. And yet you flew to Austria to find me.”

“I did,” Q acknowledges. “Some things are worth facing one’s demons for.”

He can’t let that go without a kiss, so he raises his head awkwardly to find Q’s lips. “Thank you. I don’t think I would have been successful on my own. I’m not sure I’d be alive, actually.”

“Let’s not consider any alternate realities where you went into that crater alone. There’s no reasonable good ending to that.”

“Oh, how _did_ you know it wasn’t an impact crater? God, the look on his face,” James muses with a dark laugh. “I think in that moment he hated you more than he hated me…”

Q huffs a laugh and shrugs. “Like all good nerds, I went through a dinosaur phase in my youth. Which led to a meteor impact phase and crater phase, which led to the moon’s craters—”

“And your alias.”

“And my alias,” Q acknowledges. “And then space in general, and then materials engineering— because spaceships. And also the need to make the vehicles of certain Double-oh agents less destructible.”

“Hmmm. And the coding?”

“I’d taken some camps when I was young, but then when I landed in France… well, pruning the vines wasn’t really my cup of tea. And when you feel confined in the middle of nowhere, the link to the outside world is intoxicating. I’m mostly self-taught.”

Q’s hand is wandering James’ back, so reminiscent of his explorations after their first time on the train. James closes his eyes and enjoys it: those clever fingers roving his body, learning its curves. Claiming it in subtle ways.

“I’ve thought about this,” James admits.

If it seems an abrupt change of subject to Q, he doesn’t show it. “Thought about what?”

“You touching me. When I was on mission after I left you in Spain. I was fine during the day. I was busy and focused on the mission and had R or some other handler in my ear. It’s not as good as having you with me, but for the work, it’s serviceable. But at night… I’d grown too used to having you in my bed, even before we were truly taking advantage of that situation. And you gave me so much to think about. Something about how I’ve been doing sex wrong all my life...”

Q snorts a laugh. “Been thinking about that, have you?”

“Incessantly. And for the record, I’d like you to touch me anywhere you like, any way you’d like.”

He can feel Q shiver. “James… It may be a while still before I can really make good on that promise… do it proper justice.”

“Then you need to get on that physical therapy, because I find myself very intrigued.”

Q sputters. “Do you mean to say… that is… Are you incentivizing me to do my PT with promises of _great sex_?”

“Would that work?” James asks, cracking an eye open to see a blushing Q.

“I… yes. Yes, I think it would.”

James grins. “Well, you _should_ do your PT — that’s one of the few things Medical and I agree on — and I’ll motivate you in any manner you please, but I have no intention of holding out until you’re in top form. You touch me however you like now. In fact, I find it slightly less intimidating to know that you might not be completely blowing my mind the first time.”

“Now you’re just teasing me,” Q accuses.

“A bit,” James admits, leaning up to kiss Q. “But it’s still all true. We have days and days here, and if this doesn’t work for you I’m hoping we’ll have other opportunities.”

“Days and days,” Q mumbles somewhat dreamily. “I should have brought more clothes.”

“No clothing. I’ve already bought the robes in the bathroom, and that’s all either of us gets to wear until we check out. So you see, one change of clothes will be plenty.”

“And when housekeeping comes to tidy up?”

“We’ll take a meal on the balcony in our robes and wave at the tourists shopping in Mayfair.”

“Scandalous,” Q observes with a smile. “And chilly. They’ll be Christmas shopping, you know.”

“I promise to warm you up afterward,” James says with another kiss. “Speaking of room service, are you still interested in dessert?”

Q shakes his head and yawns. “I feel perfectly satisfied, in any number of ways. Besides, I have days and days to try everything on the menu.”

“You do,” James agrees. He feels completely sated as well, and is pleased Q is in the same frame of mind.

“I suppose I should wash my teeth before I drift off,” Q muses. “Where did my specs get to?”

James finds them on the bedside table and hands them to Q. “Let me go fetch your cane for you.”

They settle back into bed ten minutes later after a _terribly_ domestic scene in the loo of washing teeth and trying not to look like they were admiring each other too much in the reflection. And now James is curled around Q from behind, an arm wrapped around his waist to hold him close, exactly how he’d woken so many times between Austria and the crater. It feels like he’s been struggling to get back to Q for weeks, just to get to lie exactly like this, imagining it all the while. It also feels like no time has passed at all since they last lay together like this on the train.

“I missed you too, you know,” Q says, as if reading James’ mind. He links their fingers together.

“Good,” James murmurs, nuzzling the nape of Q’s neck. His lips graze the scar again, and Q shivers.

“You’re going to make good use of that sensitivity, aren’t you?”

“Only until you ask me not to.” When only Q’s silence follows, James smiles and brushes his lips against it again. “Goodnight, Julien,” he whispers.

“Goodnight, James,” Q murmurs back. “Welcome home.”

***

James wakes to pale morning sun and the feel of Q at his back, warm and hard.

He’s imagined this, too. And more, for that matter. He’s both excited by the prospect and nervous. The truth is, he’s only ever enjoyed bottoming once he was well into it, and after a fair amount of awkward unpleasantness at the beginning of the encounters. He’s tried to do better by his own partners, and he’s fairly certain he’s succeeded, but he’s still a bit skeptical that he’ll truly enjoy those early stages. He is relieved to find that his initial reaction is not to pull away, as it was the first time Q touched him. He’s imagined it enough that the reality of Q’s cock pressed up against him is welcome and intriguing, despite his nerves. He lies quietly a few minutes more, letting the anticipation stir in him. He’s not even sure Q is awake yet, but shifts back slightly and is rewarded with a groan and a tightening of Q’s arm around his waist.

“Good morning, love,” James murmurs.

“So it would seem,” Q agrees. “I hate to say it, but as lovely as it is to wake up with you like this, I need the loo.”

James tries not to feel relief as Q pulls away and hobbles to the en suite. He’s the one who brought it up, after all. He’s given it thought, he _wants_ this. And he’s not scared of Q hurting him.

He rubs a hand down his face and decides he’ll feel more open to the prospect, so to speak, after he wakes up a bit. He sits up to see that it’s well past nine, and the lovely suite he barely noticed last night has sun streaming in from the window, illuminating their discarded clothing strewn across the floor. With a grin, James gets up and hangs their suits up in the closet as the sounds of splashing water come from the en suite.

Moments later, Q comes out wrapped in one of the robes, face damp but hair still standing at strange angles from sleep. He gives James’ nude form an appreciative glance and watches as James retreats to the loo himself. He’s half tempted to shower, but since Q merely washed his face and teeth from the looks of things, James decides to do the same.

He comes back out to the suite wrapped in the other robe a few moments later to find Q saying, “Perfect. Thank you very much,” and hanging up the phone.

“Problem?” he asks.

“Not in the least,” Q assures. “Just calling up for some necessities.” When James tilts his head, Q adds, “Tea, coffee, croissants… a few other odds and ends. They’ll be up shortly.”

“Peckish?” James asks, approaching Q where he stands by the window. They do have a nice view, it seems, looking over the nearby row houses to the city center in the distance. Even on the balcony, they probably won’t be seen on the street unless they actually stand at the rail. Not particularly scandalous after all. The weather looks surprisingly clear for December.

“I never did order that chocolate torte last night,” Q explains with a bit of mischief in his voice. “Seems a bit too rich for this morning. If you want eggs or something we can call back down.” Q is leaning on his cane, but wraps his free hand around James’ waist, and whatever awkwardness James felt earlier melts away.

“No, something light sounds perfect,” he says, brushing fingers along Q’s temple and pulling him in for a brief kiss. “It looks a bit chilly outside. Shall we clear the table and eat in the suite?”

“I prefer to stay warm,” Q agrees.

“We’ll have to buy some slippers and have them brought up.”

“There’s an idea,” Q says with a grin.

James moves the large bouquet of flowers to a side table as there’s a knock at the door, which Q answers, pocketing a small bag the server hands him before making way for a wheeled tray bearing their breakfast and a newspaper. Soon they are each sipping at their respective beverages of choice, nibbling on croissants, and sharing the paper. It’s pleasantly domestic, and James finds it vaguely surprising that he doesn’t feel a need to be particularly charming or seductive. It’s almost like how they behaved in the hotels while on mission together, without the immediacy or pressure of work. When he’s had a bit of food, finished two cups of coffee, and read his fill of the paper, he starts to observe Q.

He looks good. Better than last night, even. Rested and comfortable, with that bedhead that makes James’ fingers twitch to muss it further. Q’s reading intently, eyes bright, a little furrow in his brow. His jaw and cheekbones are as sharp as his wit, and his lips—

“Finished breakfasting?” Q asks, still seemingly reading. He glances up sideways at James, a little quirk on his lips.

James is caught out; Q knows he’s been staring, but it’s not the sort of thing he has to hide anymore. Not here, anyway. “I may be.”

Q folds the paper. “Maybe I could interest you in sharing a shower, then. It looks enormous, and I’m curious how comfortably we both fit in it.”

“Oh, well, if it’s for the sake of science…” James agrees.

It’s intimate, if not overtly sexual. It offers James another chance to admire Q’s lithe form as he moves under the spray and pushes his hair back off his face. Q’s stomach is completely flat, hip bones jutting out slightly as he arches back to get his hair wet, cock long and heavy, but not full. James reaches out to circle a hipbone with his thumb, and Q hums his approval.

They switch so James can get wet as Q lathers himself up with a botanical body wash. As James has his head under the spray, he feels Q’s soapy hand between his shoulder blades.

“You said last night I could touch you anywhere,” Q murmurs, sliding his hand up and down James’ spine.

“Yes.”

“In that case, I’d like to wash you.”

 _Yes_. James nods.

After a quick rinse, Q starts with his hair, massaging an expensive-smelling shampoo against his scalp until James is practically purring, and then rinsing the lather down the drain. Next, he uses that lovely botanical wash on James’ shoulders, his back. Q slips his arm around James’ torso, a slick hand exploring his chest while the other slides down to his tailbone.

“Ticklish?” Q asks as his hands wander back up James’ torso.

“No,” James assures, shifting to let Q soap up his sides, under his arms, down to his fingers. It’s sensual, like a massage; the steam and aroma and heat all swirling around his head as Q’s hands explore his body. He’s growing hard, his arousal spiraling and simmering as Q’s hands move lower, tracing his hip bones, his glutes, and finally, finally, one slick hand trails down his cock, slowly, gently lathering it. James groans and spreads his legs, his left heel catching the edge of the tile wall. He’s rewarded as Q’s hand dips below and cradles his bollocks, gently rolling them between his fingers.

“Q,” James murmurs, voice thick with desire.

“Patience, love,” Q says, slipping his other slick fingers between James’ buttocks, sliding over his opening. And that feels… genuinely odd at first. But that sensation is quickly overwhelmed by the pleasurable feel of yet another set of nerve-endings being stimulated. A slow slide of soapy fingers on his arse, his balls, his cock has him hard and wanting, not knowing whether to push forward into Q’s hand or backward against his fingers. And then a finger pushes in, just a bit. It’s barely a penetration, just past the first ring of muscle, but it feels electric. It’s gone as soon as he’s started to process its presence, and then Q is turning James into the spray and rinsing him… which is not where he thought this was going. He doesn’t question it, though, content to let Q guide him wherever he wants. The water is off, and Q reaches for a warm fluffy towel and starts to dry James off. Which, again, is primarily sensual, until Q kneels before him to dry his legs, and James’ cock twitches in response.

“Yes, I’m not surprised you like that,” Q says with a wry glance up at Bond. And _yes,_ James bloody well _does_ like the sight of Q kneeling, his mouth tantalizingly close to James’ cock. “Perhaps another time,” Q adds, dropping a very perfunctory kiss on the tip before struggling to his feet.

James helps him up, stealing a quick kiss before Q pulls away gently.

“Go lie on the bed on your stomach. I’ll be right there.”

Something flips in James’ gut. Nerves and anticipation. He’s getting comfortable, managing the pillow and settling with his face away from the door as he hears water splashing in the bathroom and then Q’s cane tapping along the floor.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Q mutters, setting something down on the side table. “That’s perfect. Stay just like that. And close your eyes.”

“Why?” James asks. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing unpleasant, I promise. But I want you to concentrate on what you’re feeling. Trust me?”

“Without a doubt,” James answers, settling back down against the pillow, his arms wrapped loosely around it.

A moment later Q climbs up onto the bed, straddling James and smoothing warm oil onto his shoulders. James grunts in pleasure as Q’s fingers dig into the meat of his muscles, relaxing them even more than the shower had. Q is remarkably good at this. Methodical, as he is with so many things, but also responsive to James’ feedback, finding the knots and spending extra time on them until James’ muscles are loose and pliable. He works his way down James’ back, scooting himself down to straddle James’ thighs as he massages his lower back. It’s then that James’ awareness shifts, because Q’s cock is still full, and now resting against his arse, largely ignored but absolutely, undeniably there. And even as James’ back becomes more relaxed the muscles in his abdomen tighten in anticipation.

James is almost disappointed when Q gives his arse a few kneads and then scoots off the bed and starts massaging his left thigh, kneading the muscles, working his way down to James’ calf and then foot, working arches and even toes. Finally, Q bends the foot back toward James’ arse, gently stretching James’ quads, then pulling the leg straight and toward the corner of the bed. Q gives the right leg the same treatment, and by the end, James is a puddle of pleasure, a strange dichotomy of relaxed muscles and hard cock, intensely aware of every place Q touches him. Each drag of a palm, each dribble of warm sandalwood oil. Even more so now that Q has, over the course of the massage, repositioned James so there is room to crawl back onto the bed between his spread legs. James’ breath shudders as he feels the bed dip in the center. Q’s fingers trail up his inner thighs to cup his arse. He grunts his approval as Q kneads his glutes, spreading them and exposing his opening to cool air and then hot breath and then…

…a slick warm tongue _fucking hell!_

He hears a rasping, needy sound and realizes he’s made it.

He’s never done this. Never had it done. Never found the idea remotely appealing, and yet the more Q’s tongue flicks against his opening, teasing it, pressing against it, the more he realizes his error. This is… it’s…

“Q — Jules,” he pleads, though he’s not sure for what.

“Oh, god, say it again,” Q demands, resting his cheek against the meat of James’ arse as he draws a finger across James’ opening.

“Jules,” Bond says, and it sounds like a prayer. “I need…”

“Okay. I’ll take care of you, love.” James feels him reach for the table again, and a moment later the tongue is back. James buries his face in the pillow to stifle the sounds that he’s making. It’s good. It’s so good, and _so_ not enough. He ruts against the sheets and just as he thinks he’ll go mad, the tongue makes way for a slick finger that pushes in with no resistance, twists, curls, and _bloodyfuckinghellthatisfantastic._

“Easy,” Q says, and James realizes that he’s drawn one knee up almost under him in a subconscious effort to give Q more access. Or get away. James is honestly so overwhelmed he’s not sure what is happening. Then Q reaches his other hand under James to stroke his cock as well as his prostate, and James doesn’t want to move a millimeter for fear of interrupting what’s happening. _Bloody hell_.

“You can come like this, you know. If you like. We have days and days, after all. No need to—”

“More!” James demands roughly. Because this is the best he’s _ever_ felt being penetrated, and he has no idea what his limit is, but he really wants to find out. “I want to feel you inside me.”

“Not yet,” Q answers, working him over deliciously slowly, the bloody tease.

“ _Julien!_ ” James keens.

“Fuck, I like the way that sounds _far_ too much,” Q answers. “I told you I would make this good. That means no rushing. My prick is quite a bit larger than my index finger, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I have,” James insists. “I’ve _noticed_ a—”

Q slides a second finger in beside the first, chuckling when James’ words stutter to an abrupt halt. Damn him.

“That’s better,” Q comments as James keens again, adjusting to the new stretch. The stroke along James’ cock is steady and distracts him through the subtle burn in his arse. It’s not even pain, really. Just _intensity_. Like muscles prickling with exertion and creating feedback with other sensations. Then Q twists his fingers again, and James feels lit up from within.

He’s not even sure what string of expletives he’s cried into his pillow — or how exactly he managed to draw his other knee up underneath him and spread himself quite so wide — but whatever it was, it makes Q kiss his tailbone.

“God, look at you,” Q murmurs, fascinated. “I could watch you like this for hours.”

“ _Julien!_ ” James protests.

“I know, love, you’re ready. And I’m aching for you. Okay, scoot yourself up the bed until you can hold onto the headboard. That’s it. Don’t turn around. Now, stand up on your knees for me. Perfect.”

James still hasn’t opened his eyes. It’s all he can do to process what he’s feeling, and Q never stops touching him, never allows James to forget where he is, what he’s doing. Q kneels behind him, moving forward until his knees are between James’, pressed tight against them, holding him. Q’s hands disappear for a moment, leaving James feeling hollow and bereft until he hears the crinkle of a condom. James drops his head and listens, grasping the headboard, as Q rolls it onto himself and slicks it up. He shudders in anticipation and wonders idly at the lack of nerves he feels now. Q’s hand is on his hip, and then wrapped around his stomach, his mouth brushing along James’ spine. Q is curled around him from behind almost the way they woke up.

“All right, love. Lower yourself down.”

James sits back onto Q’s lap, and Q is _right there,_ slick and pressing into him.

“Easy. Take your time,” Julien says, reaching for James’ cock and slowly fisting it. “There’s no rush.”

James starts to rock slowly, gingerly, sure that Q must be _much_ larger than he realized, and then Q twists his fist and James gasps in pleasure and sinks down several inches.

“Oh fuck. Stop… stop,” Q says, tightening an arm around James’ waist. “ _Christ_ , you feel good.” Q lets out a long exhale. “Okay, _slowly_ , or we aren’t even going to get to the fun part.”

James chuckles and rocks back again. It’s easier now that Q is in. The stretch is there — he feels _so full_ — but it just makes him greedy, wanting more and more of Q. And the sounds he pulls from Q as he works his way down his shaft are not at all like the sounds he coaxes from Q when he’s thrusting into him. Eyes closed, head tilted, James is sure he can already tell the difference. These are the sounds of a man fighting for control, and James _likes_ them, especially as he bottoms out, so to speak, his arse pressed into Q’s lap. The curses that Q whispers against James’ spine are divine.

He’s never felt so full. Never had anyone so deep. For a long moment they just breathe, James adjusting to Q’s girth and length, and Q just holding on. It’s the calm before the storm, and James can feel a tempest of pleasure building in him. A need to move, and need to be hollowed out and consumed by thunderous waves. He rises up, feeling the slide of Q inside him, pressure building and moving until Q is almost out, then presses down again, Q’s curses making him gasp a laugh as he groans his own… not quite pleasure. It’s intimate. _So_ intimate, feeling Q cradle him from behind, arms wrapped around him, hand on his cock, all while also pushing inside. He’s never felt so close to anyone — physically or emotionally — and _that’s_ pleasurable in and of itself. But he’s not feeling that hot white—

“Hold on,” Q says.

“I need to move, Q,” James insists.

“I know… I know. I just want to…” He shifts backward just a bit, changing the angle, and James jerks in shock as the slide of Q’s cock grazes his prostate.

“Oh fuck!” That searing pleasure is back, coupled with the stretch and the intimacy and _bloodyfuckinghell_ he couldn’t stop moving if he tried.

“There it is,” Q announces. “That’s it, James. Take what you need, love. Take everything.”

It’s a tad awkward… not a motion James is used to making and a different sort of coordination than thrusting, but he gets the hang of it, develops a rhythm, and starts them both hurtling to the edge. It doesn’t take long. James gets there first, spilling over Q’s hand with a groan, his entire body quaking with the release. Which drags Q right along with him, cursing and thrusting and finally stilling with his brow pressed against James’ spine.

“Okay, up you go,” Q says after a moment, and they disentangle and collapse inelegantly onto the bed.

James is on his stomach, breathing hard, and shagged out of his bloody mind. He grins at Q, who’s on his back beside him, panting as well. James starts to laugh.

“What?” Q asks, eyes still closed, but smiling.

“We are _definitely_ doing that again,” James says. Because bloody fucking hell…

“Good,” Q agrees with a chuckle. “In a few days, we can try another position.”

“I’ll be ready in a few hours,” James says, fluffing his pillow underneath his head,

“You say that now, but you haven’t tried to walk yet.”

“True. You manage, though,”

“Well, it takes practice to become a power bottom.”

James snorts. “And how am I meant to get this practice, exactly?”

“Fine,” Q says. “If you’re still up for it in a few hours, I promise to give your glorious arse every bit of respect it deserves.” He sits up and grabs his cane. “I’ll be right back with a flannel,” he says.

James watches _his_ glorious arse as he makes for the loo. “And you’re going to do your PT so you can fuck me into the mattress,” he calls.

There’s a small crash in the bathroom.

“Q? You okay?”

Q reemerges from the loo, grasping the doorjamb to steady himself. “You _cannot_ say things like that to me unless I’m sitting,” he says sternly.

James just laughs. Q rolls his eyes and retreats to the bathroom, coming back out a few moments later with a warm flannel, cleaning James before tossing it aside and collapsing back into the bed.

James is still grinning. “Do your PT,” he whispers, leaning up to kiss Q’s shoulder.

“Wanker.” Q shakes his head, smirking. “Fine. After a nap.”

They spend three fantastic days and nights rotating between the bed, the shower, and lounging in the suite in their robes. At the end of it, James watches Q carefully pack his robe in his attaché, replacing the clothes that he’s finally wearing. James sighs to see him in his jeans and jumper. Not that he looks bad — he looks very, very good still. But it means their time together is at an end. For now at least.

Q takes the pad they’ve written notes on, ever the good quartermaster clearing a scene. “How many complaints did we get for noise?” he asks.

James smirks. He was not bothered at all when the headboard pounding the wall had led to a subtle complaint the next morning. Bond had offered to pay to upgrade their neighbors, but made no promises about keeping quiet.

“Two, I think. Though it might have been more if the maid hadn’t cleverly folded a towel behind the bed.”

“True. We should tip her well.”

“Oh, we have,” James assures. “She’s going to do some more Christmas shopping, she told me.”

Q offers a wicked little smile. “That’s good.” He fiddles with his bag again, leaning on his cane. “You know, there are no neighbors at my flat. I’ve played music as loudly as I liked and never once had to worry about annoying anyone.”

“Is that so?” Bond asks, stilling as he watches Q. “That must be… liberating.” Not that they’d let the complaints inhibit them much.

“It is,” Q agrees. “And it can be quite peaceful… even though I live in a busy part of town, I’m high enough that I don’t hear much of the hubbub, even when I’m on the roof deck.”

“Sounds like a charming respite from the world. A bit like this, actually.”

“Well, without the room service. Or the festive flowers,” Q adds, nodding at the bouquet on the table. “But it has its charms. Especially at Christmas when you can see the snow falling through the skylight.”

“That does sound lovely,” James acknowledges, coming closer. “I imagine you put up a tree as well…”

“Normally, yes, though decorating will be a bit challenging this year, as I’m not allowed to climb a ladder yet.”

“I imagine Medical might frown on that, for the time being. Just one more reason to do your PT.”

Q rolls his eyes. “As if I need more motivation.”

James pulls Q close and wraps an arm around him. James likes the way Q just molds to him and accepts the affection without hesitating. “Is this your way of asking me if I’d help set a tree up in your loft? Because you really only need ask.”

Q sighs and leans against James’ chest. “This is actually my way of asking — very awkwardly, I might add — whether you have plans for Christmas, and if you don’t, if you’d like to spend it with me. The tree is optional.”

James grins into Q’s curls and tightens his embrace.

“I just find I’m feeling much the same way I did in the restaurant,” Q adds.

“How’s that?”

“Not ready for this to end,” Q admits.

James combs his fingers through Q’s curls, drawing his head back so they can kiss. “It just so happens,” he says when he ends it, “I have no plans for Christmas. And _this_ isn’t ending anytime soon, so far as I’m concerned. And I would very much like to spend Christmas with you, and perhaps test your theories about your soundproofing. And I’ll even throw in some tree decorating and a dinner or two for good measure.”

“It _is_ Christmas,” Q quips, kissing him again. “Then I imagine there’s no reason to delay.”

They leave the hotel, and walk out into the crisp December air, hand in hand.


End file.
